„0«K) 


For  INFANTS  and  CHILDRE^^ 


**  Castoria  is  so  well  adapted  to  chil- 
dren that  I recommend  it  as  superior  to 
any  prescription  known  to  me.” 

H.  A.  Archer,  M.  D., 

HI  So.  Oxford  St.,  Brooklyn,  N.  Y. 


“ The  use  of  Castoria  is  so  universal 
and  its  merits  so  well  known  that  it 
seems  a work  of  supererogation  to  en- 
dorse it.  Few  are  the  int'  Migent  fami- 
lies who  do  not  keep  Castoria  within 
easy  reach.”  .Carlos  Martyn,  D.D., 
New  York  City. 

Late  Pastor  Bloomingdale  Reformed 
Church. 

The  Ceni 


Castoria  cures  Colic,  Constipation, 
Sour  Stomach,  Diarrhoea,  Eructation, 
Kills  Worms,  gives  sleep,  and  promotes 
digestion. 

Without  injurious  medication. 


For  several  years  I have  recommen- 
ded your  Castoria,  a..d  shall  always 
continue  to  do  so  as  it  has  invariably 
produced  beneficial  results.” 

Edwin  F.  Pardee,  M.  D., 
“The  Winthrop,”  125th  Street  and  7th 
Ave.,  New  York  City, 

IR  Co.,  77  Murray  Street,  New  York. 


THE  FHOSE  TKAIIAS  OF  HEHHIH IBSEH 

Translated  by  WM.  ARCHER  for  FRANK  F.  LOVELL  & CO. 


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Rosmersholm,”  the  latter  being  its  first  translation  into  English. 

PBANE  r.  LOVELL  & CO.,  142  & 114  Worth  Street,  NEW  YOEE. 

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The  Lilies  of  Florence 


MtaxUs  %$Qmds 


BY 

MME.  GEORGE  SAND 

AUTHOR  OP  “INDIANA,”  **  CONSUELO,”  “LELIE,”  **  MAUPRAT,”  ETC, 


TRANSLATED  FROM  THE  ORIGINAL  MANUSCRIPTS 

BY 

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AUTHOR  OP  **  THE  PILGRIMS  OF  LOST  HOPE,”  “ ECBATANA,”  “ NORTHERN  DAYS||f 
“ruhanee,”  etc, 

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Nos.  B4B  TO  £55  EAST  MthSTat  HEW  YORK-  ^ 


BY  SPECIAL  ARRAWGCE1CMT  WITH  THE  AUTHORS. 


LOVELL’S  SERIES 

OF  I 

Foreign  Literature. 

EDITED  BY 

EDMUND  GOSSE. 


THE  CHOICEST  WORKS  OF  FOREIGN  LITERATURE  ABLY  TRANSLATED 
AND  WELL  BOUND. 

1.  Joshua.  By  George  Ebers,  . • / ‘ \ ^ * * 50 

2 Prose  Dramas.  Vol.  I.  Henrik  Ibsen,  • . . • *50 

3.  In  God’s  Way.  By  Bjomstjeme Bjomson,  . . ^ . 50 

4.  The  Two  Brothers.  By  Guy  de  Maupassant,  . ^ 50 

5.  The  Chief  Justice.  By  Karl  Emil  Franzos,  . . . 50 

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\ 


CONTENTS 


THE  LILIES  OF  FLORENCE  : page 

I. — Born  of  the  Lilies, ii 

11. — The  Charcoal  Sketch,  • . • • • .21 

III.  — In  the  Night, 33 

IV.  — Face  to  Face, . 44 

V. — The  Juggernaut,  . • . . • . *55 

VI. — In  the  Greenroom, 63 

VIL— Among  the  Lilies,  72 


STORIES  AND  LEGENDS  : 

My  Russian  Rival, 87 

Sea  Voices,  . . . . • • • • .96 

A Sprig  of  Sweet  Brier,  . 104 

In  Vintage  Time,  . , . • . • . .113 

Lamia,  122 

The  Last  Chord, ^ 

He  and  She, 13^ 

A Seam  in  the  Wall, . 146 

My  Queen,  Brunehilde,  , • • • • • *151 


8 


CONTENTS, 


STORIES  AND  LEGENDS  (Continued)  : page 

Three  and  One, 159 

A Cry  in  the  Night, 169 

The  Sun  and  Death, 180 

The  Himalayan  Prisoner,  • , ...  .187 

In  Clanking  Chains,  197 

An  Etruscan  Palace,  209 


/t'f  a if 


SIS 


I 


ZO 

WILLIAM  DEAN  HOWELLS. 


7'778?'9 


THE  LILIES  OF  FLORENCE. 


A NOVELETTE. 


■ . ■ * / ^ ^ H 1 - ' ^ I ■ J 

Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 
in  2017  with  funding  from 

University  of  Illinois  Urbana-Champaign  Alternates 


https://archive.org/details/liliesofflorenceOOsand 


THE  LILIES  OE  ELORENCE 


I. 

BORN  OF  THE  LILIES. 

Midnight. 

The  streets  of  Florence  wet  with  a drenching  rain. 

Now  and  then  a gleam  of  lightning  from  the  surround- 
ing hills,  and  a rumble  of  thunder. 

The  storm  had  passed,  and  had  surrendered  the  city  to 
darkness  and  silence. 

Above  the  drip,  drip,  drip  of  the  wet  trees  and  walls, 
old  Lucrezia  heard  another  sound.  It  was  a moan — as  of 
one  sleeping  with  a weight  on  his  breast. 

The  lights  burned  dimly  in  the  old  Etruscan  palace,  and 
as  Lucrezia  leaned  on  her  withered  elbow,  and  looked  into 
the  adjoining  room,  she  could  see  little  Fritz  tossing  about 
on  his  couch. 

She  left  her  bed  and  hurried  to  his  side.  He  was  sleep- 
ing, but  some  disturbing  dream  was  robbing  him  of  rest. 
Unintelligible  words  occasionally  came  from  his  quivering 
lips. 

The  touch  of  her  hand  upon  his  brow  did  not  awaken 
him,  though  he  began  breathing  more  naturally,  and  his 
hands  ceased  reaching  out  after  some  unseen  object. 

Lucrezia  watched  him  for  several  minutes,  and  after  the 
W’eary  look  on  his  face  was  replaced  by  a smile  of  childish 
happiness,  she  returned  to  her  bed. 

Oh,  papa,”  he  said  in  the  morning.  had  such  a 
wonderful  dream  last  night.” 

Did  you  ? ” answered  Count  Ahmberg,  somewhat 
gruffly.  ^‘You  are  like  your  mother.  She  was  always 
having  wonderful  dreams.  Her  head  was  so  full  of  ro- 
mantic nonsense  that  I sometimes  wearied  of  her.  The 
same  Italian  taint  seems  to  be  in  your  blood.  I had 


12 


THE  LILIES  OF  FLORENCE. 


hoped  that  you  might  escape  it,  and  so  be  sensible.  It  is 
a mistake  for  a German  to  wed  an  Italian.’* 

Say,  rather,”  said  Lucrezia,  though  he  did  not  hear 
her,  ‘‘  that  it  is  a mistake  for  an  Italian  to  wed  a German.” 

The  boy  saw  that  his  father  was  displeased,  but  he  was 
too  young  to  understand  the  full  meaning  of  what  had 
been  said.  He  thought  most  of  his  dream.  His  father, 
too,  was  always  frowning  ; he  was  used  to  that. 

‘‘  Then  you  will  not  listen  to  my  dream  ? ” he  ventured, 
after  a little  while. 

Nonsense  ! There,  don’t  whimper.  I always  indulged 
the  mother,  so  I suppose  I must  always  indulge  the  son. 
Here,  come  sit  on  my  knee  and  tell  me  what  you 
dreamed.” 

The  Count’s  manner  failed  to  dismay  the  boy,  and  the 
little  fellow  sprang  upon  his  father’s  knee  with  a merry 
laugh. 

Old  Lucrezia  frowned  and  gritted  her  teeth. 

‘‘  It  was  an  evil  day  when  my  lady  wedded  you,”  she 
muttered.  The  winter  in  your  heart  sent  all  the  summer 
from  hers.  And  you  were  angry,  monster,  because  she 
died  after  a year  of  life  with  you ! Altro  ! The  boy  is 
like  her,  though,  and  if  you  can  you  will  kill  him  the 
same  way.” 

The  boy  was  happy  enough  now,  and  it  is  doubtful  if  he 
could  have  been  made,  just  at  that  time,  to  agree  with 
Lucrezia.  He  was  permitted  to  sit  upon  his  father’s  knee 
— the  supreme  pleasure  and  honor  of  his  little  life  ! 

His  happiness,  and  the  joyous  light  it  sent  into  his  brown 
eyes,  annoyed  the  Count.  His  gravity,  for  a moment  re- 
laxed, returned. 

When  are  you  going  to  tell  me  the  dream  ? ” 

‘‘Now,  papa.” 

“Very  well.  Begin.” 

“You  remember  that  pretty  place  on  the  Arno  where 
mamma  used  to  sit  and  weep.  Lucrezia  takes  me  there 
sometimes,  and — and  I — weep,  too. 

“ I thought  in  my  dream  that  I was  there,  and  that  a 
pretty  lady,  who  said  she  was  my  mamma,  came  and  wanted 
me  to  go  with  her. 

“ She  took  hold  of  my  hand,  and  we  walked  along  to- 
gether up  the  Arno.  She  said  she  was  going  to  take  me 
to  see  the  daughter  of  the  lilies — a little  babe  who  was  to 
gr(j\v  up  into  a beautiful  womnn  and  be  !ny  wife. 

“We  only  went  a little  way  before  we  came  to  the  babe. 


THE  LILIES  OF  FLORENCE, 


13 


She  lay  in  a bed  of  great  white  lilies,  smiling  and  holding 
her  hands  out  to  us.  Her  face  and  arms  were  so  white  and 
beautiful,  and  her  eyes  and  hair  were  brown  and  soft. 

“Just  as  I stooped  to  take  her  up  in  my  arms  I thought 
that  you,  papa,  came  and  struck  me  down  and  cast  her 
from  me. 

“ Then  there  was  great  trouble,  and  some  one — mamma, 
perhaps — smoothed  my  hair  and  stroked  my  face. 

“ Tliere  were  storms,  and  war,  and  angry  words,  and 
finally  I thought  I was  grown  up — a man — and  that  the 
babe  had  grown  into  a maiden,  more  beautiful  than  ever, 
and  was  lying  on  my  bosom. 

“ Then  I opened  my  eyes.  The  sun  was  shining  through 
the  clouds  on  the  very  spot  where  I dreamed  that  the  babe 
lay  in  the  lilies. 

“ Let  me  go  there  with  Lucrezia  this  morning,  and  find 
the  babe  and  bring  her  home.  Will  you,  papa  ? 

“ Yes.’'  And  the  Count  turned  to  Lucrezia.  “ Go  with 
this  young  fool  and  show’  him  that  dreams  hold  nothing  in 
them  but  moonshine.  If  you  teach  him  the  right  lesson 
from  this  folly  I may  some  day  be  able  to  forget  that  he  is 
not  wholly  a German.  Go  with  him  at  once  and  let  this 
thing  end.” 

Then  he  left  the  breakfast  room,  angrily,  and  with  as 
much  haste  as  seemed  consistent  with  his  sense  of  dig- 
nity. 

“ Oh,  nurse — oh,  Lucrezia,”  moaned  the  boy,  “ tell  me 
why  papa  is  so  angry.” 

She  shook  her  head. 

Her  face  was  very  grave  as  she  replied  : 

“ Perhaps  it  is  because  you  are  your  mother’s  son.” 

Irony  is  lost  on  a five-year-old  boy.  Fritz  thought  only 
of  the  dream. 

“Is  it  such  a sin  to  dream,  Lucrezia?” 

“ Not  if  you  don’t  tell  your  father.  You  should  have 
told  me  this  dream  first.” 

“ Why  ? ” 

“ I should  have  then  hindered  your  telling  him.” 

The  boy  sighed.  Caste  and  nationality  are  such  empty 
sentiments  to  children.  Right  and  wrong  are  simply  two 
kinds  of  confusion,  and  life  itself  is  contradictive. 

“ Do  you  think,  Lucrezia,  that  he  wdll  take  the  dream- 
babe  away  from  me  if  we  find  her  out  there  in  the 
meadows  among  the  sweet-smelling  lilies  ?” 

Lucrezia’s  old  eyes  filled  with  tears  at  his  faith  in  the 


14 


THE  LILIES  OF  FLORENCE. 


dream.  He  was  thoroughly  Italian.  None  of  the  father’s 
cold,  Northern  blood  was  in  those  delicate  veins. 

Wait,  first,  child,  and  see  if  we  find  her.” 

The  boy,  gentle  enough  usually,  stamped  his  little  foot 
impatiently. 

“We  will  surely  find  her.  I know  that  she  is  there 
.waiting  for  me — just  as  I dreamed  she  was.” 

Lucrezia  smiled. 

Such  a strange  child  he  was. 

So  like  his  beautiful  mother,  who  heard  sweet  voices 
everywhere,  sang  quaint  little  melodies  that  nobody  had 
ever  heard  before,  and  laughed  and  kissed  her  hands  to 
shadows  which  nobody  else  could  see. 

And  then — she  was  always  dreaming.  Dreams  were  the 
same  to  little  Fritz  that  they  always  had  been  to  his 
mother. 

Lucrezia  hoped  that  some  of  his  dreams  might  come 
true — none  of  his  mother’s  ever  had. 

Such  a happy,  careless  girl  she  had  always  been  before 
that  stern,  hard  German  count  came.  Then  her  sorrow 
began. 

She  could  not  learn  to  love  Count  Ahmberg  ; but  her 
father  bade  her  wed  him,  and  she  was  too  much  afraid  of 
both  her  father  and  the  Count  to  disobey. 

So  she  was  married. 

In  a year  she  was  buried. 

Her  interest  in  life  was  quickl)^  gone.  Even  Fritz,  help- 
less babe  as  he  was,  could  not  keep  her.  The  oil  had 
burned  out  of  her  lamp. 

Her  German  husband’s  hauteur  stilled  the  wonderful 
voices  she  used  to  hear  ; she  no  longer  kissed  her  little 
brown  fingers  to  the  shadows,  and  she  dared  not  dream. 
Life  was  so  heavy  upon  her  dainty  shoulders  that  she  cast 
the  burden  from  her. 

“ Come,  Lucrezia.” 

The  boy’s  voice  startled  the  old  nurse. 

“ Come,  Lucrezia  ; let  us  go  for  the  babe.  The  lilies 
are  wet  and  cold  with  the  rain.  She  will  find  my  little  bed 
warmer  and  drier.” 

The  old  woman  tottered  away  with  the  boy,  half  in  jest 
and  half  in  earnest. 

Along  the  Arno  they  went,  hand  in  hand.  The  meadows 
were  white  and  sweet  with  the  lilies,  the  air  was  warm  with 
the  sunshine,  and  bright  colors  hung  in  the  clouds  above 
the  hills. 


THE  LILIES  OF  FLORENCE. 


15 


The  boy  smiled  as  he  walked. 

Here  is  where  mamma  used  to  come.  The  babe  is  but 
a little  farther  on.  There  ! hark  ! I liear  it  crying  now  ! ” 

Lucrezia  held  her  breath.  A child  was  crying — close  at 
hand.  Could  it  be  ? — but  no!  She  laughed.  It  was  only 
the  child  of  some  peasant  which  had  wandered  from  its 
mother.  She  would  try  to  find  its  home  and  take  it 
there. 

They  hastened  on. 

A few  paces  farther  and  they  came  to  a child — a naked 
female  child — lying  in  the  lilies,  as  Fritz  had  said. 

Still  Lucrezia  doubted  that  this  forlorn  babe  had  any 
connection  with  the  dream. 

Would  it  not  have  been  there  just  the  same  without  the 
dream  ? 

Living  so  long  near  a matter-of-fact  German  count  had 
made  her  sceptical. 

See  !”  shouted  Fritz.  “ This  is  the  very  one  mamma 
said  was  the  daughter  of  the  lilies.  Her  face,  hair,  eyes — 
all  are  the  same.  I told  you  we  should  find  her.  Look  ! 
she  holds  her  hands  up  to  me  just  as  she  did  in  the 
dream  ! ’* 

And  before  Lucrezia  could  prevent  him,  small  and 
slender  though  he  was,  he  had  caught  the  child  up  in  his 
arms  and  was  kissing  her.  The  child  crowed,  and  put  her 
arms  about  his  neck. 

Lucrezia  searched  the  meadows  over  and  over  again. 
There  was  no  sign  or  trace  of  anyone  but  the  child. 

As  the  grass  and  the  lilies  were  not  trampled — and  they 
would  show  it  they  were  so  wet — the  child  must  have  been 
brought  there  before  the  storm. 

That  seemed  almost  incredible.  The  storm  would  have 
surely  swept  the  little  one  into  the  Arno,  she  was  lying  so 
near  its  edge,  thought  Lucrezia. 

“What  are  you  looking  for,  Lucrezia?’'  demanded 
Fritz. 

“ For  the  mother  of  this  little  one.” 

“ Don’t  you  know  ? Haven’t  I told  you  that  she  is  the 
daughter  of  the  lilies  ? ” he  exclaimed,  angrily.  “ Mamma, 
who  is  in  heaven  and  knows  everything,  told  me  so  in  my 
dream.” 

Lucrezia  smiled.  The  boy’s  faith  in  his  dream  could  not 
be  shaken. 

“ Now  we  will  go  home,”  he  said.  “ Papa  will  want  to 
see  the  dream-babe.  How  very  beautiful  she  is  ! ” 


i6  THK  LILIES  OF  FLORENCE. 

Lucrezia  doubted  the  Count’s  pleasure. 

The  little  waif  was  taken  along  through  the  meadows, 
and  through  the  streets  of  Florence,  to  the  ancient  palace 
which  was  the  Italian  home  of  Count  Ahmberg. 

Fritz  was  happier  than  he  had  ever  been  before  in  his 
life.  To  him  the  child  was  a gift  from  his  mother. 

The  daughter  of  the  lilies  ! ” he  kept  saying.  How  his 
mother  would  have  indulged  the  fancy,  thought  Lucrezia, 
had  she  been  living  ! 

When  Count  Ahmberg  came  home  to  dine  he  met  Fritz 
in  the  hall  with  a cynical  smile. 

Well,  you  young  fool,  has  this  morning’s  wallow  through 
the  wet  lilies  impressed  you  with  the  shallowness  of 
dreams  ? ” 

The  Count’s  words  bewildered  the  boy  ; he  could  only 
say  : 

We  found  her.” 

“Did  what?” 

“ We  found  her.” 

“ Found  whom  ? ” 

“The  dream-babe.  She  was  down  among  the  wet  lilies 
— just  as  I knew  she  would  be.”  And  then  the  boy  cringed 
and  drew  back  before  the  expression  which  suddenly  came 
upon  his  father’s  face. 

“ Lucrezia,”  cried  the  Count,  “ what  does  this  imbecile 
boy  mean  ? ” 

Lucrezia  had  dressed  the  dream-babe  in  a frock  which 
Fritz  had  once  worn.  The  little  one  was  now  sleeping  on 
the  boy’s  bed. 

The  old  nurse  answered  the  Count’s  question  by  placing 
the  child  before  him. 

He  glanced  carelessly  at  the  little  one,  then  started  from 
his  chair  and  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  floor. 

“ Altro  ! ” he  exclaimed. 

The  nurse  bit  her  lip  to  keep  from  smiling,  The  Count 
had  respect  for  Italian  expletives  if  he  had  none  for  Italian 
people. 

His  face  was  pale  and  he  was  trembling. 

To  the  nurse  and  the  boy  it  seemed  an  age  before  he 
spoke. 

Finally  he  cleared  his  throat. 

“ Who  is  this  child  ? How  came  she  here  ? ” 

His  agitation  afforded  Lucrezia  the  most  exquisite 
pleasure. 

Fritz  answered  the  question. 


THE  LILIES  Of  FLORENCE. 


17 


She  is  the  dream-babe,  papa,  of  whom  mamma '' 

‘‘Silence,  imbecile.  Lucrezia,  will  you  answer  me?’* 

“ So  far  as  the  child’s  coming  here  is  concerned,  J will. 
I brought  her  here  myself.  I do  not  know  who  she  is.” 

He  looked  at  the  babe  for  several  minutes.  He  was 
angry  with  himself  for  betraying  his  agitation,  still  he 
could  not  control  himself. 

“You  brought  her  here,  Lucrezia?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ From  whence  ? ** 

“From  the  banks  of  the  Arno.” 

“ And  you  are  fool  enough,  then,  to  think  that  this  is  the 
babe  the  boy  dreamed  about  ? ** 

She  shook  her  head. 

“ I do  not  know.” 

“ Altro  r 

He  was  regaining  his  composure. 

“You  and  Fritz  are  both  imbeciles.’* 

His  voice  was  harsh  and  stern  again.  German  blood 
was  once  more  in  the  ascendency. 

“Very  likely,”  she  said,  curtly.  “ All  Italians  are.” 

“ Did  you  tell  me  you  found  this  brat  on  the  Arno  ? ” 

“ I did.” 

“Why  did  you  not  leave  her  there  ? ** 

She  matched  his  mood.  The  glitter  in  her  eyes  was  even 
colder  than  that  in  his. 

“ You  sent  us,  Count  Ahmberg,  to  a place  which  your  son 
had  dreamed  of.  We  found  a naked  child  there,  exactly 
as  he  had  dreamed,  in  a bed  of  lilies,  alone  by  herself.” 

He  snapped  his  fingers. 

“And  you  can  give  no  reason  more  sensible  than  this 
for  bringing  the  vermin  here  ?** 

“It  was  your  son’s  will.” 

“A  most  excellent  answer.” 

Lucrezia  jerked  her  hand  impatiently,  but  did  not 
reply. 

When  she  raised  her  eyes,  she  saw  that  the  Count  was 
again  staring  at  the  child. 

The  eyes  of  little  Fritz  were  full  of  tears.  He  was  won- 
dering how  it  would  end,  and  if  his  father  would  really 
take  the  little  one  away — as  he  had  dreamed. 

Lucrezia  was  pondering  on  the  Count’s  agitation  and 
perplexity. 

Why  was  he  so  startled  when  he  first  saw  the  dream- 
babe  ? Of  whom  did  that  smiling,  cooing  infant  remind 
2 


i8  THE  LILIES  OE  FLORENCE. 

him  ? What  hidden,  perhaps  forgotten,  page  in  his  life  did 
that  little  face  recall  ? 

From  the  Count  she  looked  to  the  child.  It  had  the 
features,  hair  and  eyes  of  her  own  sunny  Italy.  Its  skin, 
though,  was  white  as  northern  snow ; that  much  was 
Saxon. 

It  was  not  Count  Ahmberg’s  child.  Some  unaccountable 
but  unmistakable  instinct  told  her  that. 

Then  a strange  gleam  shot  into  her  eyes.  She  was  be- 
ginning to  understand. 

If  her  suspicion  was  correct,  the  hand  of  Providence, 
even  now,  was  raised  to  strike  that  heartless  man  a telling 
blow.  Justice  would  be  measured  out  to  him  from  a place 
higher  than  the  courts.  Then  she  shuddered.  Might  not 
the  innocent  fall  with  him  ? God  grant  they  be  beyond 
his  reach  when  the  danger  came — he  was  so  bitter  and 
vindictive,  and  would  surely  try  to  destroy  others  with 
himself. 

The  Count  sighed.  When  Lucrezia  looked  at  him,  he 
was  aroused  from  his  revery,  and  was  about  speaking. 

A sudden  thought  flashed  through  her  mind.  She  would 
make  a test.  His  first  words  should  be  a symbol — she 
would  judge  by  them  whether  she  had  guessed  the  truth. 

The  defiance  was  all  gone  from  both  voice  and  manner 
when  the  Count  again  spoke.  His  anger  was  also  gone. 

He  was  more  gentle  and  subdued  than  she  had  seen  him 
since  one  sad  morning,  years  ago,  when  she  had  awakened 
him  to  tell  him  that  his  wife  was  dead. 

Was  there  nothing  about  this  child,  when  you  found  it, 
to  tell  you  of  its  parentage  ? ” 

Had  he  been  looking  at  her  instead  of  at  the  child  he 
would  have  seen  an  expression  of  satisfaction  and  triumph 
come  upon  her  face.  It  had  vanished  before  he  looked 
from  the  child  to  her.  Her  test  had  succeeded.  He  had 
given  her  the  symbol. 

“ There  was  nothing.  Count.’' 

No  clothing — no  jewel  ?” 

The  child  was  naked.  I searched  the  river  banks  for 
several  yards,  but  there  was  nothing  to  tell  who  left  her 
there.” 

Again  he  sighed. 

How  old  is  the  child  ? ” he  asked. 

“ About  a year.” 

‘‘  My  God  ! ” he  exclaimed,  it  must  be  hers.  But  how 
can  it  be — how  came  she  here  in  Italy  ?” 


THE  LILIES  OF  FLORENCE.  19 

It  was  a strange  spectacle  — a strong  man  cowering 
before  an  infant. 

Lucrezia’s  eyes  glowed  more  like  coals  than  ever.  She 
knew  the  Count’s  presumption  and  his  dread. 

“ Did  you  wish  me  to  answer  that  question,  Count  ? ” 

He  glanced  at  her  confusedly,  and  then  left  the  room 
without  speaking. 

Fritz  pulled  the  child  from  Lucrezia’s  lap,  and,  placing 
it  on  the  floor,  sat  down  beside  it. 

Did  you  see  my  mamma,  dear,  when  you  came  down 
from  heaven  ? Did  she  tell  you  about  me  ? ” 

The  dream-babe  cooed  in  a way  that  Fritz  interpreted 
‘‘Yes,”  and  then  the  two  children  rolled  over  on  the  floor 
together,  and  the  younger  one  tried  to  catch  the  sunbeams 
that  came  flickering  in  through  the  trees.  Lucrezia  did 
not  heed  them  ; she  was  thinking  of  the  Count. 

“He  believes  that  he  knows  whose  child  this  is,  and  so 
do  I,”  she  muttered.  “ If  we  are  right — if  this  little  one 
is  indeed  that — that  woman’s  daughter,  the  Count’s  pro- 
phetic curse  may  have  a fulfilment  he  little  expected. 
What  if  Fritz’s  dream  comes  true  and  he  does  marry  this 
— well,  spite  marriages  have  often  visited  stranger  conse- 
quences upon  better  heads.” 

Footsteps  sounded  along  the  corridor,  and  presently  the 
Count  came  in  again. 

The  children  still  played  upon  the  floor. 

“Lucrezia,”  he  said,  “you  seem  to  think  the — you  un- 
derstand me — I do  not  wish  to  let  that  accursed  name 
cross  my  lips.  Why  do  you  think  that  this  is  her  daugh- 
ter ? ” 

“ They  look  alike.” 

He  frowned. 

“Why  did  you  bring  her  away  from  the  Arno  then  ? 
She  might  have  drowned  had  you  left  her  there.” 

“ You  discovered  the  resemblance  first.  Count ; and  I am 
no  murderess  that  I should  destroy  this  child,  even  if  it  is 
hers.  I have  no  grudge  against  the  mother.  Why  should 
I have  one  against  the  daughter — if  it  be  hers?” 

“ Are  you  not  in  my  service  ? ” 

“ Yes,  as  nurse  to  your  son — not  as  assassin  of  those 
whom  you  hate.” 

“You  speak  boldly.” 

“ I have  nothing  to  fear.” 

The  nurse  held  the  supremacy.  Try  as  he  would  he 
could  not  assume  the  air  he  wished. 


20 


THE  LILIES  OF  FLORENCE. 


She  watched  the  struggle  which  was  going  on  within  him, 
and  expected  every  moment  that  he  would  become  turbu- 
lent. 

What  was  it  that  held  him  in  check  ? She  had  never 
before  taunted  him  without  stirring  up  a tempest.  He 
was  always  a demon  when  disturbed.  Why  had  he  borne 
her  words  so  passively  now  ? 

She  was  sure  that  she  had  nothing  to  do  with  his  changed 
manner. 

The  influence  which  had  so  subjected  him  must  indeed 
be  powerful. 

She  watched  him  half  in  triumph  and  half  in  dismay. 
She  was  somewhat  troubled. 

Was  he  softening  toward  his  son  ? If  so,  her  vigil  would 
soon  be  ended,  and  the  promise  which  she  gave  a dead 
woman — a dead  mother — would  no  longer  bind  her  to  a 
life  which  had  become  burdensome,  like  that  mother’s. 

Did  the  dream-babe,  for  its  supposed  mother’s  sake,  so 
move  and  sway  the  Count  ? The  child,  then,  was  doing  that 
which  its  mother,  not  as  a babe  but  as  a magnificent 
woman,  had  already  done. 

Perhaps — and  now  the  old  nurse’s  face  grew  pale — it 
was  the  presence  of  the  dead  ! The  child-wife  might  be 
once  more  in  that  chamber  where  she  had  died.  As  a 
spirit,  she  might  dare  to  brave  that  cold  man’s  stubborn  will 
— she  might  be  wrestling  with  him. 

Lucrezia  was  afraid  to  raise  her  eyes  lest  she  should  see 
the  shadow  of  the  dead  wife  and  mother  near  the  man 
whose  harshness  had  so  early  ended  her  life. 

She  glanced  at  the  children.  The  sunlight  was  wavering 
and  flickering  upon  them  through  the  trees  outside  the 
window,  and  they  looked  like  two  cherubs. 

The  Count  moved  in  his  chair.  There  was  a pleasant 
light  in  his  eyes,  and  the  harsh  lines  were  all  gone  out  of 
his  face. 

In  her  wonderment  Lucrezia  forgot  her  supremacy. 

“ Lucrezia,  what  do  you  think  of  the  boy’s  dream  ?” 

His  voice  was  so  gentle  that  even  Fritz  noticed  it,  and 
paused  in  his  play. 

“ Finding  the  child  where  we  did  is  certainly  remark- 
able. It  was  exactly  as  he  said ; the  place  was  the  same, 
the  child  is  the  same.” 

His  voice  grew  still  softer. 

“ Do  you  think  my  dead  wife  would  like  to  have  her  son 
marry  this  babe,  if  she  is  the  daughterof — you  understand  ?” 


THE  LILIES  OF  FLORENCE, 


21 


“Your  wife  loved  you  too  devotedly  to  wish  anything 
else.” 

“ And  the  dream-babe’s  supposed  mother  ; do  you  think 
such  a wedding  would  gratify  her,  living  or  dead  ? ” 

“You  know  it  would.” 

For  a long  time  he  paced  up  and  down  the  room  in  si- 
lence. 

Fritz  and  the  child  watched  him  as  they  played. 

Lucrezia  watched  the  three. 

Usually  discreet,  she  then  committed  the  error  of  sup- 
posing that  she,  by  a bit  of  superstition,  could  bring  about 
the  result  for  which  she  was  hoping,  and  which,  but  for 
her  untimely  interference,  would  probably  have  come  of 
itself. 

“Count,”  she  said,  “in  your  wife’s  family,  so  they  say, 
each  male  infant  always  weds  the  first  naked  female  infant 
upon  whom  he  looks.  So,  you  see,  fate ” 

His  whole  manner  underwent  an  instant  change.  His 
face  was  livid  with  rage  and  he  seemed  like  a fiend. 

She  had  touched  the  wrong  chord,  and,  appalled  at  what 
she  had  done,  she  fell  in  a shivering  heap  on  the  floor  and 
watched  him  in  terror. 

“ Curse  fate  ! ” he  exclaimed,  as  he  stamped  his  feet  furi- 
ously. “ And  curse  all  your  idle  Italian  superstitions ! 
The  child  goes  into  the  Arno  this  hour  ! ” 

Lucrezia  interposed  herself,  with  uplifted  hands,  be- 
twe,en  Count  Ahmbergand  the  children,  but  he  pushed  her 
aside.. 

Fritz  sprang  to  his  feet,  caught  the  child  in  his  arms  and 
tried  to  hold  her  fast  ; but  the  Count  tore  the  struggling 
babe  from  those  brave  little  arms,  and  flung  the  boy  to  the 
floor,  where  he  lay  with  the  blood  streaming  from  his 
mouth. 

“You  have  done  murder  ! ” screamed  Lucrezia. 

Her  answer  was  a curse,  and  an  instant  later  the  Count 
seized  the  dream-babe  by  one  leg,  and,  with  its  head  and 
other  members  dangling,  darted  with  it  out  of  the  room. 


II. 

THE  CHARCOAL  SKETCH. 

A bruised  lily,  a broken  lute-chord,  and  the  finger  of  a 
torn  glove. 

They  had  been  lying,  partly  in  the  sun  and  partly  in  the 


22 


THE  LILIES  OF  FLORENCE. 


shadow  of  the  great  Campanile,  unnoticed,  all  the 
morning. 

The  Florentines  were  either  too  busy  or  too  lazy  to 
heed  such  rubbish. 

A cat  came  from  under  a porch  and  touched  the  lily 
with  her  soft  paw  ; but  the  sun  was  too  warm  for  play,  so 
the  cat  stretched  and  went  back  to  sleep  in  the  shade. 

A ragged  boy,  who  stopped,  and  was  debating  in  his 
mind  whether  the  lute-chord  would  make  a good  string 
for  his  top,  was  frightened  away  by  a mastiif  before  the 
question  was  settled. 

The  sun,  moving  farther  west,  soon  passed  from  behind 
the  Campanile.  The  heat  festered  the  lily,  shrivelled  the 
glove  finger,  and  twisted  the  lute-string  into  an  arc. 

So  an  hour  passed.  It  was  nearly  noon,  and  the  heat 
increased  with  the  day. 

Then  some  young  men  came  from  the  Duomo.  One  of 
them  crossed  the  piazza  by  himself,  and  stopped  before 
the  balcony  where  the  cat  was  sleeping. 

Though  he  was  looking  straight  down  at  the  lily  he  did 
not  seem  to  see  it. 

There  were  dreams  in  his  eyes,  and  pain  in  the  curves 
about  his  tender  mouth. 

His  face  was  as  sweet  and  as  sad  as  that  of  the  Fisher 
of  Galilee,  only  that  he  was  more  a poet  than  a prophet, 
and  seemed  bowed  and  saddened  by  memories  of  the  past, 
rather  than  by  the  sorrows  of  the  world. 

The  sleepy  cat  yawned  and  opened  her  eyes.  Seeing 
him  she  was  startled  and  ran  away. 

Her  flight  disturbed  his  reverie. 

For  a moment  he  watched  her  ; then  remembering  that 
as  he  came  from  the  Duomo  something  under  the  balcony, 
whence  the  cat  fled,  had  arrested  his  attention,  he  looked 
down  at  his  feet  to  see  what  it  was. 

A true  Italian,  and  so  a true  poet,  he  first  picked  up  the 
lily  and  pressed  it  to  his  lips. 

For  a long  time  he  stood  there  with  the  three  trifles  in 
his  hands,  wondering  whence  they  came. 

Had  some  wanton  dropped  them  on  her  way  home  from 
a night’s  revels?  No.  He  could  not  believe  that.  There 
was  too  subtle  an  essence  of  purity  about  them. 

The  lily  was  a gift : perhaps  from  a lover,  perhaps  from 
a mistress.  The  lute-chord  and  the  glove-fingers  were 
treasures — keepsakes  ; precious  mementoes  of  happier  or 
sadder  days,  which  their  owner  would  be  pained  to  lose. 


THE  LILIES  OF  FLORE HCE, 


23 


Thoughts  of  the  past  made  him  sigh.  Ah  ! Memory  is 
such  a traitress  ! She  lets  us  keep  only  the  frowns  and  the 
tears.  The  smiles  and  the  kisses  she  buries  under  the  sea, 
where  lost  and  hidden  they  will  stay  forever.  Sooner  will 
all  the  graves  in  old  earth’s  bosom  give  up  their  dead  at 
the  sound  of  a shepherd’s  pipe  than  cruel  memory  will  let 
these  vanislied  sweets  come  back  into  our  hearts. 

He  turned  these  simple  things,  which  he  had  picked  up, 
over  and  over  again  in  his  hands. 

Love-tokens,”  he  murmured,  softly.  “ Love-tokens, 
Love-tokens.”  He  kept  saying  it,  dreamily,  until  at  length, 
though  his  lips  still  moved,  as  if  to  shape  these  words,  no 
sound  came  through  them. 

The  sun  was  half  way  down  the  western  sky  before  he 
went  away  from  the  balcony  with  his  treasures.  He  feared 
that  the  owner  might  come  for  them,  and  would  be  grieved 
because  they  were  gone. 

He  never  once  thought  that  they  might  have  been  pur- 
posely thrown  away. 

Let  a man  have  genius,  in  whatever  direction,  and  he 
always  walks  midway  between  the  natural  and  the  spiritual 
worlds.  To  him  everything  has  value,  and  there  is  poetry 
and  sentiment  everywhere.  Hate  and  passion  alone  are 
common,  and  he  feels  that  both  are  profanations  of  the 
soul.  Love  and  ambition  are  his  only  dangers ; if  his 
pulse  once  quickens  at  the  touch  of  either,  his  genius 
perishes.  It  wastes  like  snow  before  flames,  and  is  scorched 
like  a moth  in  a candle.  He  may  still  be  a great  man,  but 
never  again  can  he  be  a great  artist.  With  woman  it  is 
different.  She  thrives  on  love.  To  her  it  is  no  simoon- 
blast,  but  the  breath  of  life.  Love  inspires  her.  She  en- 
livens her  colors  with  its  mystic  ether,  and  she  draws  her 
lights  and  shadows  with  its  flashes  and  pangs.  Her  life  is 
incomplete  without  it,  and,  still  more,  her  art. 

Twice  on  his  homeward  way,  along  the  Via  Ricasoli,  he 
paused.  He  still  thought  of  the  grief  of  the  one  to  whom 
the  ‘Hokens”  belonged,  and  doubted  if  he  had  done  right 
in  leaving  the  balcony  so  early. 

Many  eyes  were  bent  upon  him  as  he  went.  It  is  a rare 
compliment  in  Italy  to  have  people  turn  and  look  back 
after  one  in  the  streets.  The  country  is  overflowing  with 
god-like  forms  and  faces. 

At  last  he  ascended  the  steps  of  an  old  palace  which  the 
noble  Farinata  had  saved  from  the  destroying  Ghibellines. 

Entering,  he  closed  the  door  softly  behind  him,  and 


24 


THE  LILIES  OF  FLORENCE. 


passed  quietly  and  unobserved  along  the  corridor  to  his 
own  chamber. 

In  a little  silken  pouch which  he  found  in  a drawer  he 
inclosed  the  trifles — the  love-tokens — which  he  found 
under  the  balcony  by  the  Duomo. 

Then  a wistful  light  came  into  his  eyes. 

‘'Why  do  I keep  these  things  ? Is  it  silly  ? Somehow 
— I cannot  tell  why — I feel  as  if  they  had  come  from  her  ; 
and  so  they  are  sacred,  holy,  worthy  of  a place  on  my 
bosom  with  the  tress  of  my  mother’s  hair.” 

The  noise  of  his  own  voice  seemed  to  alarm  him,  and  he 
hastened  to  the  door  to  listen. 

There  was  no  sound  in  the  palace,  and,  reassured,  he 
turned  away  from  the  door  and  stood  before  one  of  the 
dark,  polished,  wooden  panels  with  which  the  monotony 
of  the  marble  walls  was  broken. 

A radiant  smile  came  upon  his  face  as  he  removed  the 
panel,  disclosing  a picture — done  in  charcoal,  but  very 
beautiful. 

It  was  the  picture  of  a naked  female  child,  lying  in  a bed 
of  lilies. 

“ Oh,  little  one,  darling,  shall  I ever  see  you  on  earth 
again?  Shall  I ever  know  if  my  heartless  father  really 
drowned  you  ? How  beautiful  you  must  be  if  you  are  liv- 
ing now  ! It  is  ten  years — ten  sad,  bitter  years,  full  of 
doubt  and  misery  and  pain — since  he  tore  you  away  from 
me  in  this  very  room.  Little  he  thought  my  faith  in  my 
boyish  dream  would  last  so  long.  It  will  always  last ! He 
may  call  me  weakling,  and  may  say  that  I am  more  than 
half  woman,  but  he  will  always  find  me  firm  enough  in 
this.  I bend  to  him  too  much,  but  it  hurts  me  to  clash 
with  him.  His  words  are  like  blows  upon  my  head,  and 
the  wounds  he  inflicts  are  slower  to  heal  than  knife- 
thrusts.” 

Slowly  he  walked  up  and  down  the  chamber,  pausing 
each  time  before  the  picture. 

“ I wonder,”  he  continued,  as  he  replaced  the  panel,  “if 
you  are  bright-eyed,  red-lipped,  and  round-limbed,  like  the 
maidens  I see  every  day  in  the  streets — if  you  are  not  dead  !” 

Once  more  he  removed  the  panel,  but  only  for  a mo- 
ment. Then,  with  tearful  eyes,  he  reluctantly  covered  the 
picture  again  and  threw  himself  on  his  bed. 

It  still  lacked  an  hour  of  sunset. 

When  it  was  quite  dark  an  old  woman  entered  the  room 
with  a lighted  lamp. 


THE  LILIES  OF  FLORENCE, 


25 


She  listened  a moment  to  the  young  man’s  regular 
breathing,  then  she  left  the  room  with  a sigh  and  carried 
the  lamp  away  with  her. 

“ Poor  Master  Fritz,”  she  said.  “ Let  him  sleep.  He  has 
no  other  comfort  but  his  art,  and  his  stubborn  father  tor- 
tures half  the  pleasure  out  of  that.” 

About  midnight  the  youth  awoke,  startled.  Every  nerve 
was  aroused  and  every  sensibility  was  keenly  alert.  He 
could  feel  that  there  was  some  indefinable,  intangible,  mys- 
terious presence  in  the  room. 

He  was  not  terrified,  but  awed.  He  held  his  breath,  but 
could  detect  no  sound.  Noiselessly  he  left  his  bed  and 
groped  about.  His  hands  touched  nothing  but  the  fur- 
niture— the  same  furniture  that  was  there  when  his 
mother  died. 

Mother ! The  sacred  name  brought  a new  thought. 
Might  not  hers  be  the  mystic  presence  he  felt  ? Involun- 
tarily the  word  left  his  lips  : 

“ Mother  ! ” 

He  heard  a faint  sigh  and  was  then  conscious  that  the 
presence  had  passed  and  that  he  was  alone  again. 

Just  then  the  church  clocks  struck  one. 

. A strange  sense  of  peace  came  to  him,  and  there  was 
more  happiness  in  his  heart  than  had  ever  been  there  be- 
fore. He  believed  that  his  mother  had  been  with  him, 
and  that  her  coming  augured  good.  In  that  vivid  half- 
dream, half-vision  of  his  boyhood,  she  had  smiled.  Misery 
followed.  Now  she  had  sighed.  Was  not  joy  certain  to 
come  of  it  ? 

Perhaps  he  should  find  her — the  one  whom  he  had  so 
long  mourned  as  dead  ! Now,  and  for  the  first  time,  he 
felt  that  she  still  lived.  His  mother  had  united  them 
before.  Might  it  not  be  the  same  now  ? 

Morning  came  and  found  him  still  awake,  still  musing  ; 
shaping  quaint  fancies  and  linking  odd  thoughts  to- 
gether. 

When  the  sun  was  an  hour  high  he  slept. 

He  awoke  with  a sound  of  music  in  his  ears.  Some 
woman  was  singing.  Was  it  an  angel  ? Surely  he  never 
had  heard  such  a voice  before. 

Every  note  was  full,  rich,  and  sweet — penetrating  rather 
than  loud.  The  sound  came  from  the  street,  and  he  hur- 
ried out  to  see  who  the  marvellous  singer  was. 

A girl  was  standing  on  the  pavement  before  the  old 
palace.  The  ripenesr  of  her  form  indicated  fifteen  or 


26 


THE  LILIES  OF  FLORENCE, 


sixteen  years,  but  if  the  record  in  her  face  was  true  she 
was  much  younger. 

It  was  from  her  throat  that  the  sweet  music  came. 

Her  face,  like  her  voice,  was  a revelation  to  him.  Clad 
in  rags  though  she  was,  she  was  the  loveliest  creature 
upon  whom  he  had  ever  looked. 

Her  eyes  were  large  and  dark  ; her  hair,  black  and 
luxuriant.  There  were  dimples  in  her  cheeks,  and  her 
nose  was  of  the  most  perfect  Grecian  type.  The  lily 
whiteness  of  her  face  and  neck  was  heightened  by  the 
delicate  glow  on  her  cheeks.  They  looked  as  if  some 
master  artist  had  touched  them  with  his  brush.  Her  chief 
charm  was  her  mouth.  It  united  the  spirituality  of 
Psyche  with  the  voluptuousness  of  Aphrodite.  Her  lips 
were  neither  thick  nor  thin,  but  indescribably  beautiful. 
No  sculptor’s  block  ever  yielded  anything  more  faultless. 

He  gazed  upon  her  in  rapt  amazement.  He  had  seen 
such  women  in  paintings,  but  had  never  dreamed  that 
they  had  any  existence  beyond  canvas,  or  the  brain  of 
some  inspired  artist. 

At  first  she  did  not  see  him.  When  she  did  she  stopped 
her  song  almost  instantly,  and  came  up  the  marble  steps 
to  him. 

Who  are  you  ?”  she  asked,  excitedly. 

‘‘  Nella,”  called  the  two  youths  who  were  with  her,  and 
who  had  accompanied  her  song  with  their  mandolins. 

Nella,  come  back.  You  must  not  trouble  the  young 
gentleman.” 

She  answered  them  with  a gesture  of  impatience,  and 
repeated  her  question. 

‘H  am  Fritz,  the  son  of  Count  Ahmberg.” 

She  looked  at  him  intently,  and  with  a puzzled  ex- 
pression upon  her  face. 

Did  you  ever  see  me  before  ? — a long  while  ago,  I 
mean.” 

He  shook  his  head. 

“ Never.  I never  saw  anyone  so  beautiful  before.” 

Her  cheeks  reddened. 

Please  turn  your  head  and  let  me  see  both  sides  of 
your  face.” 

He  obeyed  her. 

She  scanned  him  closely,  and  her  face  became  very 
grave. 

I certainly  remember  your  face.  I used  to  see  it  in  my 
dreams.  It  is  in  some  way  connected  with  my  childhood.” 


THE  LILIES  OF  FLORENCE, 


27 


Her  childhood  ! How  poverty  matures  one : She  was 
scarcely  more  than  a child  then,  except  in  bitter  ex- 
perience— in  the  common  pursuit  for  bread. 

Before  Fritz  could  answer  her  there  was  a shrill  scream 
from  just  behind  him. 

The  door  whence  he  came  to  see  the  singer  was  still 
open,  and  an  old  woman  was  standing  in  it.  There  was  a 
wild  look  in  her  eyes,  her  lips  trembled,  and  she  was 
pointing  one  of  her  long  bony  fingers  at  the  girl. 

‘‘  My  God  !”  she  cried,  ‘‘  Is  that  a phantom,  Fritz,  or  a 
real  creature  of  flesh  and  blood  ?” 

The  girl  advanced,  and  peered  into  the  old  woman’s 
face. 

‘‘  I am  no  phantom,  madam,”  she  answered  ; and  I am 
sure  that  we  have  seen  each  other  before.  I seem  to  re- 
member you,  as  well  as  the  young  gentleman.” 

‘‘Who  is  she,  Lucrezia  ? ” demanded  Fritz.  “Do  you 
really  know  her?” 

“Know  her?  Yes!  She  is  Bianca’s  daughter.” 

“ Bianca’s  daughter  ? ” 

“ Yes  ; the  daughter  of  the  woman  whom  your  father 
would  have  married  but  for  your  mother.  She  is  right. 
She  has  seen  us  before.  She  is  the  dream-babe  ! ” 

Fritz  grew  deadly  pale  for  a moment,  and  clutched  at 
the  doorway  for  support.  Then  he  caught  the  girl  in  his 
arms,  and  covered  her  lovely  face  with  kisses. 

Astonished,  she  submitted  passively  for  a moment  ; then, 
loosening  his  hands,  she  pushed  him  gently  aside. 

“Wait,”  she  said.  “ I do  not  understand.” 

“Tell  me,  dear,”  said  Lucrezia,  “ by  what  name  are  you 
called?” 

“ Nella.” 

“ And  these  boys  who  are  witli  you  ?” 

“They  are  my  foster-brothers.  Their  father  rescued 
me  from  the  Arno  when  I was  a babe.  Someone  tried  to 
drown  me,  but  I was  taken  from  the  water  before  I was 
quite  dead.” 

Her  words  sunk  into  Fritz  like  so  many  knives.  There 
was  no  mistaking  it,  she  was  the  dream-babe.  His  fore- 
most thought  was  his  father’s  crime.  If  she  knew  of  that, 
he  would  lose  her  yet,  try  as  he  would,  he  could  not  stifle 
the  irresistible  impulse  to  tell  her.  Some  mystic  agency, 
some  unknown  power,  was  forcing  him  to  make  the  awful 
disclosure. 

He  struggled  against  it  with  all  his  might. 


28 


THE  LILIES  OF  FLORENCE, 


Vainly,  though. 

The  words  came  through  his  unwilling  lips  at  last.  It 
seemed  to  Lucrezia  that  they  were  wrung  from  him,  as  if 
some  invisible  Vehm  Gericht  were  torturing  him. 

“ The  man  who  threw  you  into  the  Arno  was  my  father  ! '' 

‘‘Your  father  ?” 

“Yes.’^ 

“Am  I your  sister,  then  ?” 

“ No,”  answered  Lucrezia,  “but  you  should  be  his  wife.” 

The  girl’s  face  turned  crimson,  and  she  looked  down  at 
her  little  bare  feet. 

“ His  wife  ! Why,  I am  but  a child.”  Then,  casting  a 
shy,  half-frightened  glance  at  Fritz,  she  added  : 

“ He  kissed  me,  too.  No  man  ever  did  that  before.” 

Fritz  was  still  under  the  influence  of  the  mysterious  and 
resistless  power.  Lucrezia  never  saw  him  so  animated  be- 
fore. His  eyes  looked  as  large  and  deep  as  Tasso’s.  He 
was  no  longer  a flexible,  mobile  boy,  but  a dauntless  and 
impetuous  man.  He  had  developed  in  an  instant.  Hesi- 
tancy, softness,  all  traces  of  faltering  boyishness,  were 
gone.  Still  he  was  all  Italian — Count  Ahmberg’s  son  in 
name  only. 

“ It  is  the  power  of  love,”  said  Lucrezia,  to  herself,  “ only 
he  does  not  fully  realize  it  yet.” 

He  stepped  forward  and  took  Nella’s  hands  in  his ; 
reverently  he  raised  them  to  his  lips. 

“ Listen,  Nella  ; listen,  dear,”  he  said.  “ I will  tell  you 
all.  When  I came  into  the  world  my  mother  left  it.  My 
father  had  broken  her  heart. 

“ Before  he  married  my  mother  he  loved  yours — though 
I never  knew  it  until  to-day.  He  married  my  mother  for 
spite,  and  then,  afterward,  hated  her  because  she  was  his 
wife. 

“ When  I was  a boy  of  six  years  my  dead  mother  came 
to  me  one  night  in  a dream,  and  told  me  of  a babe  who 
was  lying  alone  in  the  lilies — the  daughter  of  the  lilies,  she 
called  the  little  one.  We  went  to  her  in  my  dream.  There 
she  lay,  all  white  and  naked,  by  the  Arno. 

“ My  mother  said  this  babe  would  one  day  be  my  wife. 

“ The  next  morning  Lucrezia  and  I went  out  by  the 
Arno,  and  there  we  found  you,  just  as  I had  dreamed,  in  a 
bed  of  sweet,  white  lilies. 

“ We  brought  you  home  with  us,  and  for  a whole  day 
you  and  I played  together  on  the  floor.  It  was  the  hap- 
piest day  of  my  life — until  to-day. 


THE  LILIES  OF  FLORENCE, 


29 


‘‘  You  would  have  always  stayed  with  us,  but  for  a family 
superstition  which  angered  my  father.  He  struck  me 
down,  tore  you  away,  and  swore  that  he  would  cast  you 
into  the  Arno.” 

“ So  he  did ! ” said  the  girl,  and  for  a moment  her  eyes 
blazed  fiercely.  Tell  me — what  was  the  superstition  you 
spoke  of  ? ” 

is  this:  In  my  mother’s  family  each  male  infant 
always  weds  the  first  naked  female  infant  upon  wliom  he 
looks.  You  were  naked  when  we  found  you,  and,  so,  if 
the  fates  err  not,  you  are  to  be  my  wife.” 

The  rich  blood  rushed  into  her  face  and  neck,  and  again 
she  looked  down  at  her  bare  feet.  Her  embarrassment 
doubled  her  loveliness. 

My  father  had  about  decided  to  keep  you  ; but  lie  does 
not  believe  in  fate.  So,  when  he  found  out  this  super- 
stition, it  angered  him,  and  he  tried  to  destroy  you.” 

Then  it  was  not  because  of  my  mother  that  he  tried  to 
drown  me  ? ” 

“ It  was  because  of  the  superstition — nothing  else,”  said 
Fritz. 

“ It  was  fate,”  said  Lucrezia.  ‘‘  It  had  to  be  so.” 

Nella  still  suffered  him  to  hold  her  hands. 

*‘Did  you  not  try  to  find  me  ?”  she  asked. 

‘‘  How  could  I,  dear  ? I was  but  six  years  old — a mere 
babe  myself.” 

‘‘  True.” 

I have  tried,  though,  ever  since  I was  old  enough. 
Lucrezia  and  I have  sought  you  everywhere.” 

And  you  could  find  no  trace  of  me  ^ I have  lived  in 
Florence  ever  since  your  father  threw  me  into  the  Arno, 
and  I have  passed  this  palace  many  times.” 

Until  yesterday  I never  found  a trace.” 

Yesterday  ! ” exclaimed  Lucrezia 

“ What  did  you  find  then  ? ” asked  the  girl. 

‘‘These,”  said  Fritz. 

He  drew  from  his  neck  the  silken  pouch  containing  the 
“tokens”  which  he  found  under  the  balcony  by  the 
Duomo.  Her  eyes  glistened  as  he  opened  the  pouch. 

“Why,  they  are  mine  !”  exclaimed  the  astonished  girl. 
“ I lost  them  yesterday  morning  when  I Avas  singing  for 
some  students.  “ What  made  you  think  them  mine  ? ” 

“ My  heart  told  me  so.” 

“ How  strange — how  very  strange,”  she  murmured. 

“ It  is  fate  ! ” declared  Lucrezia,  solemnly. 


30 


THE  LILIES  OF  FLORENCE. 


‘‘The  lily,”  said  the  girl,  was  given  me  by  Sister  Teresa, 
who  taught  me  how  to  read,  write,  and  sing.” 

“No,”  cried  Fritz;  “not  the  last;  the  angels  taught 
you  that.” 

She  blushed  again. 

“The  lute-chord  and  the  glove-finger  were  in  my  hands 
when  they  took  me  out  of  the  Arno.  I have  always  kept 
them,  hoping  that  they  might  in  some  way  help  me  to 
find  my  people.” 

Lucrezia  tottered  forward. 

“Let  me  see  them.”  And  she  took  them  from  the  girl’s 
hands. 

“They  were  your  mother’s,  Fritz,”  she  said,  softly. 
“They  were  valued  keepsakes  of  hers.  You  must  have 
given  them  to  the  babe  before  your  angry  father  dragged 
her  away.” 

For  a moment  they  looked  at  each  other  in  silence. 

“God’s  will  is  stronger  than  man’s  will,”  said  Lucrezia, 
“and  even  Count  Ahmberg  cannot  thwart  it.” 

“ Nella,”  said  Fritz,  “ I have  loved  you  ever  since  I first 
saw  you  in  my  dream.  All  these  years  I have  been  sorrow- 
ing for  you.  Stay  with  me  now,  dear.  My  heart  is  yours, 
and  some  day  you  may  care  for  me.  Think  of  the  dream, 
and  of  my  finding  you  in  the  lilies.  It  was  not  chance, 
either,  my  finding  the  tokens  yesterday.  Last  night  my 
mother  came  to  me  again,  and  then  I knew  that  I should 
find  you.  This  morning  you  came.  No,  it  is  not  chance. 
My  father  is  wrong  ; Lucrezia  is  right.  It  is  fate  ! You 
shall  be  wliat  you  will — my  wife,  by  and  by,  or  my  sister — 
only  do  not  go  away  again.” 

Slie  wept.  He  put  his  arm  around  her  and  drew  her 
into  the  palace.  Lucrezia  followed. 

Slie  and  Fritz  showed  Nella  where  his  mother  died,  and 
where,  years  ago,  tlie  little  motherless  boy  had  played  on 
the  floor  with  the  dream-babe. 

Slie  was  deeply  moved.  How  like  a dream  it  was  to 
her  ! How  strangely  was  Fritz’s  life  interwoven  with  hers  ! 
It  was  reality,  though.  And  Fritz,  too,  was  so  handsome, 
so  unlike  the  people  whom  she  had  known  before. 

What  was  her  duty  ? Should  she  stay  there,  or  go  back 
to  the  hovel  on  the  Arno,  with  old  Taddeo  and  his  hungry 
family  ? She  had  sung  in  the  streets  many  a day  for 
them,  and -the  money  she  had  brought  them  had  well  re- 
paid all  the  care  they  had  given  her.  Care  ? She  had 
always  been  ragged  and  hungry!  It  was  the  best  they 


THE  LILIES  OF  FLORENCE. 


31 


had,  though,  and  they  had  always  treated  her  kindly.  Did 
she  not  owe  her  life  to  them,  in  fact  ? Yet,  Fritz  had  fairly 
opened  the  gates  of  pearl. 

She  sighed.  It  was  such  a trying  question.  Fritz  and 
Lucrezia  had  said  that  fate  had  restored  her  to  them  ; she 
would  let  fate  settle  it. 

Fritz  removed  the  false  panel  in  his  chamber  wall  and 
showed  her  the  picture — the  naked  babe  in  the  bed  of 
lilies. 

“That  is  the  way  you  looked  when  we  found  you/*  he 
said. 

It  interested  her  deeply. 

“ Who  drew  it  ? **  she  asked. 

“ I did.** 

*‘You?’* 

‘‘Yes — from  memory.  Years  after  I lost  you.” 

She  regarded  him  with  awe. 

“ Why,  you  are  a very  great  artist.** 

He  laughed  and  kissed  her  hand. 

“ Not  great — scarcely  an  artist  at  all.  All  the  art  I have, 
I owe  to  loving  you  so  well.** 

Just  then  there  was  a noise  in  the  corridor. 

“The  Count  has  returned,**  said  Lucrezia,  “and  he  will 
come  in  here.** 

Nella  dreaded  to  see  him. 

“ Let  me  go,*’  she  said. 

“No,**  said  Fritz,  “he  will  do  you  no  harm,  and  the 
sooner  you  meet  him  the  better.** 

A moment  later  the  door  opened  and  Count  Ahmberg 
entered. 

His  yellow  hair  was  somewhat  whitened,  but  he  was  still 
an  imperious  German. 

Nella  had  stepped  to  the  dark  side  of  the  chamber,  and 
so  he  did  not  see  her.  The  panel,  however,  was  still  open, 
and  he  saw  the  picture. 

A spasm  of  pain  went  over  him.  He  sat  down,  without 
speaking,  and  buried  his  face  in  his  hands. 

Nella  moved  softly  toward  the  door,  and  would  have  es- 
caped but  for  Fritz. 

“Wait,**  he  whispered,  “it  will  soon  be  over  now,  and 
then  all  will  be  right.** 

She  was  trembling  violently,  and  clung  to  him  for  sup- 
port and  protection. 

“I  am  so  terrified,**  she  gasped.  “Do  let  me  go.  Just 
think — he  tried  to  kill  me  once.** 


32 


THE  LILIES  OF  FLOREHCE. 


‘‘Hush.  Do  not  disturb  him.  He  will  not  attempt  to 
injure  you  again.'* 

Lucrezia  was  surprised  at  the  calmness  of  Fritz.  She 
had  never  seen  him  so  before,  in  the  presence  of  the  Count. 

“ It  is  the  power  of  love,"  she  muttered  to  herself. 
“ Count  Ahmberg,  your  tyrannous  authority  is  dethroned 
at  last.  It  is  justice.  It  is  fate  ! " 

The  Count  sighed.  Then  he  rose  and  stood  before  the 
picture. 

“Did  you  do  this,  my  son  ?"  he  asked,  without  looking 
around. 

“Yes." 

“ It  is  very  like  her."  There  was  pain  in  his  voice. 

“Yes,"  said  Lucrezia,  “it  is  much  as  her  mother  must 
have  been  at  the  same  age." 

He  started. 

“ Why  speak  of  her,  Lucrezia  ? " he  asked,  sadly 

Her  old  eyes  gleamed.  She  had  triumphed  after  all.  If 
/je  had  a heart  she  would  lacerate  it  now. 

“ Because,"  she  said,  “ the  time  to  speak  has  come.  You 
defied  fate,  and  the  defiance  has  come  back  upon  you. 
Your  vengeance  failed.  The  dream-babe,  the  daughter  of 
the  lilies,  is  not  at  the  bottom  of  the  Arno.  You  could  not 
drown  her  ; it  was  willed  otherwise.  She  still  lives.  It  is 
ten  years  since  you  took  her  away,  and  now  she  has  come 
back.  Look  ! " 

He  turned  toward  her,  and  his  eyes  followed  her  finger. 

Fritz  had  drawn  Nella  out  of  the  shadows,  and  the  strong 
light  fell  squarely  upon  her  wondrous  face. 

The  moment  Count  Ahmberg  saw  her,  he  forgot  every 
word  that  Lucrezia  had  said. 

There  was  but  one  thought  in  his  mind.  He  gasped  for 
breath  and  tore  his  collar  away  to  free  his  throat.  He 
tottered,  and  then  reached  out  his  hands  to  the  frightened 
girl. 

“ Bianca!"  he  whispered,  hoarsely. 

“ No,"  said  Lucrezia.  “ Not  Bianca,  but  Bianca's  daugh- 
ter." 

He  understood. 

“She  whom  I cast  into  the  Arno.  Oh,  God  I" 

And  then  he  fell,  face  downward,  upon  the  floor. 

Fritz,  Nella,  and  Lucrezia  looked  at  each  other  in  silence. 

Fritz  alone  was  calm. 


THE  LILIES  OF  FLORENCE. 


33 


III. 

IN  THE  NIGHT. 

Day  after  day,  and  night  after  night,  Count  Ahmberg  lay 
moaning  and  tossing  in  his  bed. 

The  physicians  could  do  nothing  for  him  ; his  malady 
baffled  their  skill. 

Through  the  fever,  which  at  times  seemed  wont  to  con- 
sume him,  body  and  soul,  and  through  the  violent  chills 
which  succeeded  that  fever,  at  irregular  intervals,  he  was 
talking  incessantly. 

Try  as  they  would,  those  who  listened  to  him  could  dis- 
tinguish but  one  intelligible  word.  That  was  ; 

“ Bianca ! ” 

At  last  they  thought  him  dying. 

All  medicine  having  failed,  the  oldest  of  the  physicians 
thought  of  another  expedient. 

Who  is  this  Bianca  he  talks  of  so  much  ?”  he  asked 
Lucrezia, 

‘‘That  is  a family  secret  which  I am  pledged  not  to 
divulge.’* 

“ Altro  ! **  exclaimed  the  doctor.  “ Do  you  fancy  that  the 
Count  would  like  a family  secret  guarded  at  the  expense 
of  his  life?” 

“His  life?” 

“ Exactly  that.  If  I know  this  secret,  I may  succeed  in 
working  upon  his  mind  sufficiently  to  save  him.  Yet,  if 
you  are  indifferent ” 

“ But  I am  not  indifferent,”  she  declared,  vehemently. 
“If  telling  his  private  history  will  save  his  life,  my  lips  are 
unsealed.  I am  not  the  kind  who  gratifies  curiosity  with 
gossip,  though,  and  shall  only  talk  if  I am  convinced  that 
it  will  do  him  good.” 

His  brusqueness  was  gone  when  he  spoke  again. 

“ I respect  what  you  say,”  he  replied,  “and  must  confess 
that  I cannot  promise  you  any  certainty.  It  is  an  experi- 
ment, at  best.  It  may  succeed  and  it  may  fail.  Both  are 
possible  ; the  latter  is  probable.  Still,  it  is  our  only  hope.” 

She  stepped  forward  until  her  face  nearly  touched  his, 
and  looked  him  searchingly  in  the  eyes. 

“ I believe  you,”  she  said,  finally,  “and  I will  tell  you. 
Come.” 


3 


34 


THE  LILIES  OF  FLORENCE, 


He  started  toward  the  door. 

He  pointed  to  the  other  physicians. 

‘‘  They  must  know,  too,”  he  said. 

She  returned  to  her  chair  and  sat  down. 

Not  even  to  save  his  life,”  she  said.  “ Not  even  to 
save  his  life.” 

The  doctor  frowned,  but  she  was  looking  the  other  wa-’ 
and  did  not  see  him. 

“Very  well,”  he  said,  “ I will  go  with  you.” 

She  fixed  her  eyes  upon  him  again. 

“ Do  you  swear  to  keep  this  secret  ?” 

“ I swear.” 

They  left  the  room  together. 

It  was  nearly  an  hour  before  they  returned. 

“ Send  for  the  girl,”  he  said,  as  they  came  in. 

In  a few  minutes  Nella  entered. 

Her  rags  had  long  since  been  exchanged  for  soft,  luxu- 
riant silk,  and  though  she  was  very  pale,  she  was  more 
beautiful  than  ever. 

The  old  physician  took  her  hand  and  led  her  to  one  side 
of  the  room,  where  they  held  a whispered  consultation. 

She  seemed  much  moved,  and  was  weeping  when  he  left 
her. 

He  then  asked  Fritz  to  take  the  other  physicians  into  an 
adjoining  room  and  remain  with  them. 

“ It  may  be  two  hours  before  you  will  be  called,”  he 
said.  “ I am  going  to  try  an  agency  on  this  man  which  is 
more  potent  than  medicine.  It  may  save  his  life.  If  my 
experiment  fails,  the  failure  will  not  hasten  his  death.  Its 
success  depends  upon  the  receptive  condition  of  his  mind. 
When  in  health  he  is  not  impressionable  ; in  his  present 
state  he  may  be.  Upon  that  possibility,  slender  though  it 
is,  I base  my  sole  hope.  My  only  reason  for  asking  you 
to  leave  us  is  for  the  sake  of  guarding  Count  Ahmberg's 
secret.” 

The  doctor's  voice  was  husky  as  he  finished  speaking,  and 
his  eyes  met  Fritz's  strangely. 

Fritz  shuddered. 

What  was  that  awful  secret  ? Would  he  ever  know  it  ? 

Then  he  prayed  that  his  father's  life  might  be  spared 
until — he  scarcely  knew  what  ; and  the  blind  prayer  died 
in  his  heart  before  it  was  finished. 

Stepping  to  the  bedside  he  glanced  down  at  his  father. 
Would  that  worn  and  moaning  sufferer  live  two  hours 
more  ? He  doubted  it  and  hesitated. 


THE  LILIES  OF  FLORENCE, 


35 


All  eyes  were  fixed  upon  him,  though  he  was  uncon- 
scious of  it.  No  one  could  understand  why  he,  who  had 
been  so  brave  and  firm  all  along,  should  be  so  irresolute 
now. 

Lucrezia,  who  had  nursed  him  as  a child,  and  had 
watched  with  all  of  a mother’s  eagerness  his  gradual  un- 
folding into  young  manhood  best  knew  his  moods. 

She  believed  that  he  was  surrendering  his  will  to  the 
influence  of  some  spiritual  power. 

What  it  was  she  could  not  guess,  nor  could  she  imagine 
what  its  results  might  be  in  so  critical  a moment. 

She  felt  that  the  Count’s  life  depended  upon  the  cool- 
ness of  the  old  physician  whom  she  had  just  intrusted 
with  a secret  which  she  had  sworn  always  to  keep.  The 
old  man  knew  nothing  of  Fritz’s  exquisite  and  sensitive 
organization,  melancholy  temperament,  and  delicate  spirit- 
uality. If  he  discovered  it  now,  it  might  distract  him  from 
his  purpose  until  it  was  too  late  to  try  the  experiment. 

The  present  current  of  his  thought  must  not  be  dis- 
turbed. She  must  arouse  Fritz,  and  hurry  him  and  the 
assistant  doctors  out  of  the  room,  instantly. 

Gliding  swiftly  to  the  youth,  she  touched  him  on  the 
shoulder.  There  was  a dreamy,  bewildered  expression 
about  his  face  as  he  looked  around  at  her. 

Fritz,”  she  said,  Nella  is  weeping.” 

The  spell  'which  was  holding  him  was  broken,  instantly. 
He  brushed  his  eyes  with  his  hands,  and  hastened  to  Nella. 

Lucrezia  smiled  joyously.  Fritz  was  himself  again,  calm 
and  firm. 

‘‘  Nella,  darling,”  he  said  tenderly,  as  he  kissed  the  sob- 
bing girl,  “be  brave  for  my  sake.  You  are  more  to  me 
than  anyone  else  in  the  world,  and  my  father  comes  next. 
Save  him  for  me  if  you  can,  dear.  I depend  more  upon 
you  tlian  upon  the  doctor  for  the  success  of  this  mysteri- 
ous experiment.” 

He  embraced  her,  and  then  started  to  leave  the  room. 

“Come,  gentlemen,”  he  said,  as  he  opened  the  door 
into  the  corridor.  “ We  must  do  our  part — we  must  go,” 

As  soon  as  Nella,  Lucrezia,  and  the  old  doctor  were 
alone  the  latter  examined  his  patient. 

“The  Count  is  sinking  rapidly,”  he  said.  “If  my 
experiment  fails,  in  half  an  hour  he  will  be  a dead  man.” 

Nella  and  Lucrezia  exchanged  glances. 

Not  a moment  too  soon  had  Fritz  and  the  others  gone 
away. 


36 


THE  LILIES  OF  FLORENCE. 


The  old  physician  took  a small  vial  from  his  medicine 
case  and  parting  the  Count’s  lips,  emptied  it  in  his  throat. 

For  a moment,  the  old  man  watched  Count  Ahmberg 
breathlessly.  Then  a satisfied  looked  came  upon  his  face, 
and,  drawing  a chair  near  the  bedside,  he  sat  down. 

We  shall  succeed,”  he  whispered,  ^‘but  until  1 bid  you 
do  so,  you  must  not  speak  or  make  an  audible  sound  of 
any  kind.  His  life  depends  upon  utter  silence.  Be  as- 
sured, both  of  you,  that  the  experiment  is  working  to  my 
entire  satisfaction  ; and  unless  you  hinder  me,  I shall 
be  able  to  save  both  his  life  and  his  reason.  Do  not,  how- 
ever, let  anything  you  see  surprise  you.” 

Lucrezia  stood  by  the  doctor’s  side,  and  Nella  was  be- 
hind him.  Together  they  watched  the  Count. 

Presently  he  ceased  moaning  and  murmuring,  and 
seemed  to  be  sleeping  naturally.  He  kept  breathing  more 
and  more  faintly  until  the  movement  of  his  chest  stopped. 

Then  a dull,  ashen  pallor  camempon  his  face. 

Nella  and  Lucrezia  looked  at  each  other  again,  and  then 
at  the  Count. 

Was  he  dead  ? Had  the  doctor  poisoned  him  ? 

With  a look  of  intense  horror  upon  her  face,  Lucrezia 
put  out  her  hand  to  touch  the  sick  man. 

The  doctor  caught  her  by  the  arm,  and  scowled  angrily. 
She  drew  back,  convinced  that  Count  Ahmberg  was  dead, 
and  that  the  doctor  was  crazy. 

This  was  the  foolish  experiment  which  she  had  consented 
to  have  tried  ; it  had  only  resulted  in  the  Count’s  dying  in 
the  absence  of  his  son  ! She  cursed  herself. 

Nearly  an  hour  the  doctor  and  his  disturbed  companions 
watched  the  prostrate  man  on  the  bed  before  them. 

How  differently  each  of  the  group  regarded  him.  To 
Nella,  Count  Ahmberg  was  little  else  than  a fallen  enemy  ; 
to  Lucrezia  he  was  the  father  of  Fritz  and  the  one  upon 
whom  the  young  man’s  fortunes  depended,  while  to  the 
doctor  he  was  simply  an  interesting  patient  whose  custody 
he  was  disputing  with  Death. 

Lucrezia  was  staring  at  the  floor,  sullenly  and  with  set 
lips. 

Suddenly  she  felt  Nella’s  hand  clutch  her  sleeve. 

The  old  woman  looked  at  the  girl. 

Nella’s  great  dark  eyes  were  fixed  upon  the  face  of  the 
supposed  dead  man. 

Lucrezia  looked,  too,  and  could  scarcely  suppress  a cry 
of  astonishment. 


THE  LILIES  OF  FLORENCE, 


37 


The  Count's  lips  were  moving,  and  there  was  a quiver 
about  his  eyes.  Then  his  chest  heaved  and  stopped.  Then 
it  heaved  again,  and  stopped. 

His  hands  twitched  convulsively,  a tremor  ran  through 
his  frame,  the  muscles  in  his  legs  drew  up  and  relaxed,  and 
then  he  resumed  breathing. 

His  face  was  still  very  pale,  but  the  death-hue,  which 
had  so  terrified  Lucrezia,  was  gone. 

The  doctor  rubbed  his  hands  together  gleefully  and 
signed  Nella  to  step  to  the  bedside,  where  the  Count's  eyes 
would  rest  upon  her  the  moment  he  opened  them. 

Noiselessly  she  obeyed  him. 

Lucrezia,  surprised  and  awe-stricken,  could  only  stand 
and  stare  at  the  sick  man. 

How  she  revered  the  old  doctor.  Was  there  ever  a 
greater  man  ? Why,  here  was  one  whom  he  had  just 
snatched  from  the  very  grave  ! 

What  a fool  she  had  been  to  distrust  him,  and  how  glad 
she  was  that  she  had  not  openly  rebelled  against  him — she 
might  have  killed  the  master ! 

As  the  doctor  watched  what  he  considered  the  resuscita- 
tion of  the  Count,  he  thought  what  tremendous  chances 
he  had  taken.  He  had  succeeded  so  far,  but  he  might  fail 
yet,  as  the  most  perilous  moment  was  still  to  come. 

The  drug  he  had  administered  was  very  volatile.  Its 
purpose  was  to  produce  a stupor  as  near  death  as  possible. 

When  the  patient  entered  this  stupor  there  was  an  equal 
strain  upon  mind  and  body. 

During  the  action  of  the  drug,  the  nerve-centres  would 
be  dormant  and  the  mind  comatose. 

As  the  stupor  passed  the  body  would  regain  activity  first 
and  it  would  still  be  half  an  hour  before  the  mind  would 
begin  recovering  from  the  lethargic  effects  of  the  drug. 

The  mind  having  rested  more  than  the  body  would  for 
a single  instant  be  normal. 

That  would  be  the  trying  moment ! 

If  the  opening  eyes  of  the  patient  first  rested  upon  some 
object  which  made  an  agreeable  impression  upon  the  mind 
tlie  mental  balance  would  be  restored  in  full  vigor.  If  the 
first  object  seen  produced  a mental  shock  the  reason  would 
be  dethroned  for  ever ! 

So  upon  this  one  rational  instant  the  success  or  failure 
of  the  experiment  hinged. 

The  Count  was  moving  about  uneasily  in  his  bed,  and 
was  likely  to  open  his  eyes  at  any  moment. 


33 


THE  LILIES  OF  FLORENCE. 


Now  that  the  crisis  was  at  hand  the  doctor  became  ner- 
vous and  excited. 

Had  he  been  too  sanguine  ? 

Nella,  true  enough,  had  been  made  by  the  arrangement 
of  her  hair  and  dress,  to  closely  resemble  Bianca  her 
mother,  whose  name  had  been  on  the  Count’s  lips  through- 
out his  illness. 

Bianca’s  was  the  last  image  on  his  mind  before  the 
deadening  stupor  overcame  his  senses. 

If,  when  he  opened  his  eyes,  he  saw  Nella  and  thought 
her  Bianca,  the  doctor  felt  certain  that  the  complete  re- 
covery and  restoration  of  his  patient  was  inevitable. 

Then  another  thought  came  to  the  old  physician  which 
made  him  tremble.  Strange  it  was  that  he  had  not  given 
that  point  consideration  from  the  very  first.  It  was  as  he 
now  thought  the  most  vital  point  of  all. 

What  if  the  Count  recognized  Nella  as  she  really  was — as 
Bianca’s  daughter  ? In  his  enfeebled  condition  would  it  not 
precipitate  the  very  calamity  they  were  so  anxious  to  avert  ? 

It  was  Nella  who  had  caused  this  intractable  illness ! 
The  Count  had  been  stricken  down  at  sight  of  her  ! 

Would  it  not  have  a similar — nay,  a worse  elfect,  now  ? 
Before,  he  had  been  in  robust  health  and  in  the  full 
possession  of  all  his  faculties  ; now  he  was  so  near  death 
that  the  slightest  shock  would  destroy  him. 

Cold  sweat  stood  on  the  doctor’s  brow.  Of  what 
egregious  folly  he  had  been  guilty  ! 

His  hopes  had  narrowed  down  to  one,  and  that  had  less 
tangibility  than  a spider’s  web. 

If  Count  Ahrnberg  opened  his  eyes  the  moment  his 
mind  was  free  from  the  stupor,  the  deception  might  be 
consummated — he  might  mistake  Nella  for  Bianca.  That 
was  the  slender  chance. 

The  delay  of  two  seconds  would  so  completely  restore 
the  sick  man’s  mental  poise  that  the  illusion  would  then 
be  impossible. 

He  would  know  Nella,  and  God  alone  knew  the  rest. 

By  a powerful  effort  the  doctor  nerved  himself  for  the 
result. 

There  was  still  time — he  could  send  Nella  away  and 
summon  Fritz  ; he  would  produce  no  shock. 

The  new  hope  was  gone  as  quickly  as  it  came.  The 
change  could  not  be  made  without  noise,  an  explanation, 
and  a delay.  It  was  time  for  the  patient  to  come  out  of 
his  somnolence,  and  too  late  to  send  Nella  away. 


THE  LILIES  OF  FLORENCE. 


39 


The  doctor  wavered  for  the  smallest  conceivable  space 
of  time  between  two  opinions,  and  then  decided  that  it 
would  be  best,  after  all,  to  send  Nella  from  the  chamber. 

He  reached  out  his  hand  to  touch  the  girl. 

Then  the  Count  opened  his  eyes. 

He  looked  straight  into  Nella’s  face  and  smiled. 

The  doctor  was  never  more  surprised  in  his  life.  His 
keen  perception  showed  him  that  Count  Ahmberg  was 
not  in  the  least  deceived.  He  had  recognized  Nella ! 

The  lips  of  the  sick  man  moved  as  if  he  was  speaking. 

Nella  bent  her  head  down. 

‘‘You  know  all,  dear  girl,”  whispered  the  Count.  “ Can 
you  forgive  me  ? ” 

She  kissed  his  brow. 

“ I not  only  forgive  you,  but  I love  you,”  she  said. 

O wondrous  woman-heart ! Let  your  compassion  and 
pity  be  appealed  to,  and  whom  could  you  not  love  ? You, 
degraded,  villified,  and  maligned,  would  forsake  the 
mercies  of  heaven  and  descend  into  Hades  to  moisten 
the  parching  lips  of  your  tortured  enemy  ! What  man 
would  do  as  much?  Not  even  Lazarus,  upon  the  bo- 
som of  Abraham. 

The  doctor  leaned  forward  and  peered  down  into  his 
patient's  face.  With  a suppressed  cry  of  joy  he  hurried 
out  of  the  room. 

Once  in  the  corridor,  he  danced  and  laughed  like  a 
madman.  Professional  dignity  was  forgotten. 

“Tears!  tears!”  he  cried,  as  Fritz  and  the  assistant 
doctors  came  forward.  “ He  is  in  tears  ! He  is  safe  ! ” 

As  soon  as  his  paroxysm  of  joy  subsided  a little,  he  led 
the  others  to  the  sick  chamber. 

They  paused  in  the  doorway,  touched  to  the  heart. 

Nella  was  kneeling  by  the  bedside.  Her  arms  were 
about  the  Count,  and  his  were  about  her.  They  were 
weeping  together. 

The  recovery  of  the  Count  was  rapid.  In  a month  he 
was  able  to  be  driven  about  the  streets. 

How  beautiful  the  City  of  Lilies  seemed  to  him ! 
Never  before  had  he  so  perfectly  realized  its  rare  loveliness. 
He  thought  that  he  must  have  developed  a new  sense. 
There  was  glory  everywhere.  The  glory  of  light,  scent 
and  color  ; the  glory  of  young  faces  and  merry  voices. 
His  cynical  materialism  was  gone — he  hoped  forever. 
Sometimes  he  smilingly  declared  himself  as  much  a mystic 
as  Fritz. 


40 


THE  LILIES  OF  FLORENCE, 


Those  were  joyous  days.  Even  the  approach  of  chill 
winter  sent  no  gloom  into  the  old  Etruscan  palace.  The 
mirth  and  sunshine  in  their  hearts  was  sufficient  to  ward 
off  all  disturbance  from  the  outer  world. 

Before  the  first  snow  came  the  Count  was  entirely  well 
again. 

To  him,  Nella  was  already  a daughter,  and  she  awarded 
him  all  of  a daughter’s  devotion. 

At  first  she  was  fearful  that  she  was  living  in  dreamland  ; 
some  trance-like  state  which  would  eventually  leave  her 
once  more  in  old  Taddeo’s  hovel,  on  the  Arno — only  a 
street  singer  and  a beggar. 

But  the  atmosphere  of  love  with  which  she  was  surround- 
ed in  Count  Ahmberg’s  palace  soon  dispelled  her  last  fear. 

She  was  happier  than  she  had  ever  thought  it  possible 
for  any  one  to  be,  even  in  heaven. 

The  only  thought  which  troubled  her  was  of  her  mother. 
Why  did  they  never  mention  her  now  ? She  sighed.  There 
must  be  some  good  reason  for  this  silence.  She  would 
wait  and  see.  They  must  speak  some  time  ; of  that  she 
felt  certain.  She  would  try  to  be  patient ; but  patience  is 
so  difficult  for  a child. 

Alas  ! the  human  heart  is  never  content.  It  is  best  so. 
Were  it  otherwise,  who  would  strive  to  win  heaven  ? 

Winter  soon  made  way  for  spring,  and  then  the  lilies 
came  again.  The  beautiful  lilies  which  she  and  Fritz 
loved  so  well,  since  it  was  to  the  mute  symbolry  of  these 
fair  things  that  they  owed  so  much  of  their  happiness. 

With  the  spring  came  one  slight  cloud.  Slight  because 
it  did  not  long  overshadow  her. 

Maso,  old  Taddeo’s  eldest  son,  came  to  the  palace  one 
day  and  asked  to  see  her  alone. 

He  told  her  that  all  the  rest  of  Taddeo’s  household  re- 
garded her  as  dead.  To  him  she  was  still  the  same,  only 
dearer  than  ever.  He  had  never  loved  her  as  a sister,  but 
as  something  better.  He  could  no  longer  live  without  a 
word  of  hope  from  her.  She  should  not  be  hurried,  she 
should  wait  as  long  as  she  chose,  but  would  she  not 
promise  to  be  his  wife  some  day  ? They  would  go  away 
from  Taddeo,  away  from  Florence,  away  from  every  one 
whom  they  knew  ; they  would  go  to  Rome,  where  he  had 
a rich  cousin  who  would  start  them  in  life. 

And  so  he  went  on  for  a long  time.  She  was  so  surprised 
at  first  that  she  could  not  speak.  When  she  could  she  told 
him  he  was  mad  ; what  he  asked  was  impossible. 


THE  LILIES  OF  FLORENCE. 


41 


She  was  fond  of  him,  because  he  had  always  been  kindest 
to  her  of  any  of  Taddeo’s  household.  She  would  always 
be  his  friend,  but  his  wife — never  ! She  doubted  if  she 
would  ever  be  any  one’s  wife. 

“ That  is  because  you  are  the  daughter  of  a prince,  and 
feel  above  the  contadini,”  he  shouted  angrily,  as  he  rushed 
away. 

The  daughter  of  a prince ! What  could  Maso  mean  ? 

She  walked  along  through  the  corridor  with  her  head 
down.  Maso  had  pained  her  with  his  love  ; she  was  sorry. 
Still  it  was  not  her  fault.  She  never  had  dreamed  that  he 
thought  of  her  as  anything  but  a sister.  Maso’s  wife  ! It 
shocked  her. 

She  stopped  and  leaned  against  a column  in  the  corridor. 
She  had  brushed  against  Count  Ahmberg  without  seeing 
him,  and  was  standing  within  a foot  of  him,  entirely 
unaware  of  his  presence. 

“ Am  I really  the  daughter  of  a prince  ? ” she  asked  her- 
self, half  audibly. 

The  Count  laughed,  caught  her  in  his  arms,  and  kissed 
her. 

You  really  are,”  he  said.  Your  father  was  a German. 
In  that  country  there  are  more  princes  than  thalers. 
Nobles  are  thicker  than  the  grilli  that  sing  here  in  the 
corn.  Many  a German  of  high  rank  cannot  get  enough 
money  to  buy  him  a dinner.” 

His  drollery  made  her  laugh. 

‘‘Why  were  you  so  absorbed  a moment  ago  ?”  he  asked. 
“You  looked  as  if  some  evil  had  befallen  you.” 

“ Indeed  there  has.” 

And  then  she  told  him  of  Maso.  He  laughed  and  then 
he  frowned. 

“The  beggar  may  do  you  some  harm.  It  is  too  bad  to 
have  you  annoyed  so.  The  servants  must  not  admit  him 
again.” 

“ It  was  hard  of  him  to  say  that  I felt  above  the  con- 
tadini, because  my  father  was  a prince,”  she  said,  in  a 
grieved  tone. 

The  Count  started,  and  his  face  wore  a graver  look  than 
she  had  ever  seen  on  it  before. 

“ He,  Maso,  spoke  of  that  ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ My  God  ! ” he  exclaimed. 

She  looked  at  him  in  astonishment.  Then  she  under- 
stood. 


42 


THE  LILIES  OF  FLORENCE, 


Maso  knew  her  history  ! 

‘‘Nella/’  said  the  Count,  “this  beggar,  Maso,  forces  me 
into  the  performance  of  a duty  which  I had  meant  should 
be  delayed  longer.  To-morrow  I will  tell  you  all.  I must 
run  no  risk  of  its  coming  to  you  from  unfriendly  lips.” 

“ Was  there  a reason  for  keeping  this  matter  from  me  ?” 

“ Yes  ; a grave  one.” 

“ Will  to-morrow  remove  it  ? ” 

“ No.” 

“ Then  do  not  tell  me  yet.” 

He  was  amazed. 

“ You  can  trust  me,”  she  continued.  “ No  lips  but  yours 
shall  disclose  this  secret  to  me.  Do  not  speak  until  there 
is  no  longer  a reason  for  silence.  I can  wait.” 

He  kissed  both  her  hands. 

“You  have  so  much  faith  in  me,  Nella  ?” 

“There  is  no  one  in  whom  I have  more  faith.” 

“ But  what  I have  to  tell  you  may  make  you  hate  me.” 

She  laughed. 

“ Be  assured— it  will  not.” 

And  then  she  ran  away  to  find  Fritz.  He  had  removed 
the  false  panel,  and  was  looking  at  the  picture  of  the 
dream-babe. 

She  stole  into  the  chamber  so  softly  that  he  did  not  hear 
her  until  she  spoke. 

“ Turn  from  the  picture  and  behold  the  original,”  she 
said,  bombastically. 

He  turned  with  a laugh,  and  caught  her  in  his  arms. 

“ What  did  Maso  want  ? ” he  asked. 

She  told  him. 

“ What  if  it  had  been  someone  else  ? ” 

“ Who  else  would  dare  talk  that  way  to  me  ? ” 

He  kissed  her. 

“ I might,”  he  answered. 

She  hung  her  head  to  hide  the  color  in  her  face  and 
neck. 

“ Nella,”  he  said,  softly,  “ it  is  a year  now  since  you  came 
back  to  me.  May  I not  hope,  ere  long,  to  call  you  wife  ?” 

Her  emotion  was  so  intense  that  she  did  not  answer  him 
immediately.  At  length,  she  gave  him  one  hasty  glance, 
and  dropped  her  eyes  again. 

“ Do  I need  to  answer  ? Can  you  not  tell  ? You  know 
that  I am  yours — all  yours.” 

Ah  ! what  lover  can  forego  the  bliss  of  confirmation  ? 
Though  the  heart  of  his  mistress  may  lie  open  to  him, 


THE  LILIES  OF  FLORENCE, 


43 


like  a map,  he  is  not  content  until  he  hears  from  her  lips 
that  sweetest  of  all  confessions. 

Weeks  made  months,  until  a year  had  passed  ; and  then 
another  year.  It  was  again  the  season  of  lilies. 

Fritz  was  in  a sheltered  niche  in  the  top  of  the  palace 
watching  the  clouds. 

It  was  about  raining. 

As  the  hour  of  midnight  was  tolled  from  the  church 
clocks,  Fritz  went  back,  in  memory,  to  another  rainy 
midnight— fifteen  years  ago.  It  was  then  that  he  first 
dreamed  of  his  mother  and  Nella. 

Before  another  year  was  gone  Nella  would  be  his  wife. 
She  had  just  promised  him  that. 

Presently  a drop  of  rain  came,  and  then  another. 
Faster  and  faster  they  fell,  until  the  whole  sky  seemed 
one  mighty  mass  of  descending  water. 

He  never  saw  it  rain  so  before.  Out  of  shelter  one 
would  be  drenched  to  the  skin  instantly— no  matter  how 
dressed.  Clothing  would  afford  no  protection  in  such  a 
storm. 

Occasionally  someone  went  hurrying  along  the  street. 
They  looked  ghost-like  and  dim.  There  was  no  trace  of 
proportion — scarcely  of  shape.  Two  yards  from  his  eyes 
everything  was  indistinct  and  vague. 

Then  three  of  those  shadowy  figures  seemed  to  emerge 
from  the  palace.  They  were  carrying  a large  bundle  be- 
tween them. 

Probably  the  storm  had  driven  them  into  the  porch 
for  a few  minutes  until  they  could  get  their  breath. 

He  watched  them  until  they  disappeared.  They  went 
in  the  direction  of  the  Duomo. 

His  heart  began  thumping  violently.  What  made  it  ? 
He  smiled.  It  was  midnight,  the  mystic  hour  when  all 
of  his  manifestations  had  come  to  him.  Was  some 
phantom  near  him  again  ? 

Then  he  started  in  horror;  he  had  seen  nothing,  he 
had  heard  nothing,  but  he  was  certain  that  something 
had  happened  to  Nella — some  disaster. 

He  tried  to  shake  off  the  impression  and  laugh  it 
away,  but  he  could  not,  so  he  sprang  inside  of  the 
palace  and  darted  down  the  stairs. 

Lucrezia  heard  him,  and  opened  her  door  before  he 
reached  it. 

“What  is  it  ?”  she  asked. 

“ See  if  Nella  is  safe.  Be  quick  ! ” he  commanded. 


44 


THE  LILIES  OF  FLORENCE, 


In  a moment  Lucrezia  shrieked,  and  Fritz  rushed  into 
the  girl's  room. 

Lucrezia  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  floor  wringing  her 
hands. 

Nella  was  gone  ! 

Her  bed  was  tumbled,  and  the  whole  chamber  was  in 
confusion. 

Her  little  jeweled  dagger  lay  near  the  door,  and  it  was 
stained  with  blood. 

What  if  it  was  her  blood  ! 

It  could  not  be.  All  the  powers  combined  could  not 
take  her  from  him  now.  Yet  her  abduction,  for  such  it 
must  be,  dazed  him. 

What  did  it  mean  ? Who  had  done  it  ? 

Ah  ! He  remembered  the  three  shadowy  figures  he 
had  seen  from  above.  They  who  went  toward  the 
Duomo. 

Perhaps  their  mysterious  bundle  was  Nella  ! 

He  dashed  out  of  the  palace  and  along  the  wet  street 
toward  the  Duomo.  The  rain  blinded  him,  and  the  rain 
tried  to  force  him  back  ; but  love  lent  him  wings,  and  on 
he  went. 

Three  figures  were  passing  the  Duomo.  They  were 
carrying  a bundle.  He  went  faster.  They  saw  him,  and 
stepped  under  the  balcony  where  the  cat  had  played  with 
the  ‘Hove-tokens." 

As  he  came  up  one  of  the  figures  sprang  out  and 
struck  him  on  the  head  with  a billet  of  wood.  He  fell 
like  lead,  and  lay  motionless. 

Then  the  three  moved  on  with  their  bundle. 


IV. 


FACE  TO  FACE. 

Out  of  the  Storm  under  the  protection  of  the  balcony 
Fritz  lay  unconscious — unconscious  that  a woman  had 
opened  a door  near  his  head  and  was  looking  down  at  him. 

It  was  so  dark  that  she  went  back  for  a lamp.  By  its 
aid  she  saw  Fritz's  face.  She  let  the  lamp  fall  to  the 
pavement  with  a crash,  and  clasped  her  liands  excitedly. 

‘‘  His  son  ! " she  exclaimed  ; ‘‘  his  son  ! And  at  my  very 
doors  I 


THE  LILIES  OF  FLORENCE. 


45 


Then  she  rushed  out  into  the  rain,  and  looked  after  the 
three  who  had  just  gone  away. 

Can  it  be  they  have  the  father  ? Is  that  whom  they 
are  bearing  off  ? He  must  feel  my  vengeance.  I must 
follow  them.  I will  not  be  cheated  after  waiting  so  long  ! 

She  returned  to  the  door  and  called,  and  several  servants 
came  in  response.  One  of  them,  a handsome  boy,  she 
bade  follow  her,  and  the  others  to  care  for  Fritz. 

Then  she  and  the  stripling  dashed  away  in  the  rain. 

They  were  soon  in  sight  of  those  who  were  carrying  the 
bundle,  and  the  woman  could  scarcely  restrain  her  im- 
patience enough  to  keep  at  a prudent  distance  behind 
them. 

As  they  crossed  the  Ponte  Vecchio  the  woman  felt  in  her 
bosom  for  her  dagger.  It  was  there,  and  a smile  of  satis- 
faction came  upon  her  face. 

I will  save  him  if  necessary,**  she  muttered.  I will 
save  him — for  myself.*’ 

The  three  men  loitered.  Several  times  they  put  down 
their  bundle  and  rested.  It  seemed  to  the  woman  that 
they  would  never  reach  their  destination.  Each  instant  was 
an  age  to  her. 

The  men  finally  stopped  before  a miserable  hovel  on  the 
Arno.  One  of  them  opened  the  door  and  the  others  car- 
ried the  bundle  in. 

Like  a leopard  the  woman  glided  up  to  the  nearest  win- 
dow and  peered  in. 

The  men  had  laid  their  bundle  on  the  floor,  and  one  of 
them  began  undoing  it 

Breathlessly  the  woman  at  the  window  watched  him. 
All  at  once  she  started  back  in  surprise. 

“ It  is  a woman,**  she  said,  in  an  undertone. 

Then  turning  to  her  boyish  companion  she  laughed. 

Our  long  journey  in  the  rain  was  for  naught  When 
those  villains  undid  their  bundle  I expected  to  see  some 
one  else — a man ** 

A movement  in  the  hovel  caused  her  to  stop  speaking 
and  press  closer  to  the  dirty  little  window. 

An  old  crone  who  had  arisen  from  a pile  of  rags  was 
leaning  over  the  seemingly  unconscious  woman  whom  the 
men  had  brought  with  them. 

‘‘So,  Maso,**  mumbled  the  crone,  “you  have  brought 
Mistress  Nella  home  again  ?*’ 

“Yes,  mother.  Her  days  of  finery  and  idleness  are 
over.** 


46 


THIi.  LILIES  OF  FLORENCE. 


“ You  have  not  killed  her  ?’’ 

“No,  fool;  not  that.  I shall  take  her  with  me  to  the 
mountains.  She  had  better  be  my  wife  than  vounff 
Ahmberg’s  wanton/'  ^ ^ 

‘‘  They  will  find  her  here,  and  then  we  shall  all  suffer  for 
your  folly/* 

‘‘  Then  they  will  nave  to  come  soon  ; I start  for  the 
mountains  in  two  hours/* 

‘‘You  always  were  a fool  about  that  girl,**  growled  the 
crone.  A pity  it  is  your  father  did  not  leave  her  in  the 
Arno  where  he  found  her.  When  I think  of  all  that  she 
has  cost  us  I could  kill  her  myself.** 

He  shook  his  finger  at  her. 

“ Patience,  gentle  mother,”  he  said,  tauntingly.  “ Harm 
to  her  means  death  to  the  one  who  harms  her.** 

Then  he  stooped  and  shook  the  maiden  who  lav  at  his 
feet. 

“Come,  rouse  you,**  he  said  ; “ it  is  time  you  are  out  of 
this.** 

She  did  not  stir. 

“ You  have  killed  her  yourself,  my  fine  young*  g:entle- 
man,**  laughed  the  crone.  J S ^ ^ 

“ It  is  only  the  drug,**  he  answered.  “ She  will  soon  be 
cursing  my  mother's  eldest  son  for  taking  her  away  from 
her  shame.’* 

He  raised  Jsiella  up  and  placed  her  in  a rickety  chair. 
That  same  chair  had  been  her  bed  many  a night  when 
she  was  a babe. 

Maso  stood  behind  her  and  let  her  head  lie  back  against 
his  shoulder.  How  she  would  have  spurned  that  pillow 
had  she  known  it ! 

“Nella,**  he  said,  softly;  “ Nella,  will  you  never  open 
your  eyes  again?’ 

A loud  scream  outside  the  hovel  caused  him  to  let  the 
girl’s  head  fall  forward  and  spring  to  the  door. 

“ Who  is  there  ?”  he  shouted. 

There  was  no  answer. 

“It  is  the  officers,”  mumbled  the  crone.  “They  are 
after  her.  We  shall  all  die  yet  because  of  that  girl.” 

“ Stop  your  croaking,”  commanded  Maso  as  he  seized 
a burning  stick  from  the  hearth  and  went  out  into  the 
storm. 

The  scream  which  startled  Maso  and  his  companions 
came  from  the  throat  of  the  woman  who  had  followed 
them  through  the  rain.  She  dropped  flat  on  the  ground 


THE  LILIES  OF  FLORENCE. 


47 


under  the  window  the  moment  she  uttered  the  involun- 
tary cry  and  pulled  the  boy  down  beside  her. 

Maso  came  past  them  with  his  torch,  but  he  never  once 
looked  down,  so  they  escaped  his  eyes.  As  soon  as  he 
went  back  into  the  hovel  the  woman  arose  to  her  feet  and 
glanced  into  the  window'  again  for  a single  instant. 

She  was  trembling  violently,  when  she  turned  to  the  boy. 

Go  back  to  the  city,”  she  said,  “ for  help.  Bring  offi- 
cers, or  anyone  who  will  come.  Tell  whoever  you  find 
that  they  will  be  paid  well  for  following  you  here.  Give 
them  this  purse  and  these  jewels  for  pledges.  Bid  them 
fly.  Be  quick.  Run  as  fast  as  you  can.” 

The  boy  darted  away  so  swiftly  that  he  vanished  from 
her  sight  as  if  the  storm  had  caught  him  up  and  borne  him 
off. 

When  he  was  gone  the  woman  returned  to  the  window. 
Long  and  earnestly  she  gazed  at  Nella.  The  tears  ran 
down  her  cheeks  and  she  was  quivering  with  emotion. 
Pressing  her  hands  to  her  head  she  moaned. 

Was  I deceived  sixteen  years  ago,”  she  murmured, 
after  a little  while,  ‘‘or  am  I deceived  now?  They  told 
me  my  babe  was  dead,  and  I never  once  doubted  them 
until  to-night.  But  this  girl  before  me — is  she  my  daughter? 
Oh,  God,  I do  not  know  ! Why  does  my  heart  flutter  so 
with  dumb  pain  ? Why  does  it  not  tell  me  whether,  as  a 
babe,  I clasped  that  fair  girl  to  my  breast  ? ” and  then, 
overcome  with  anguish  and  doubt,  she  threw  herself  upon 
the  wet,  muddy  ground  and  wept  bitterly. 

The  relentless  wind  and  the  drenching,  pelting  rain  were 
nothing  to  her.  There  was  a fiercer  storm  in  her  breast. 

She  wondered  if  human  hearts  ever  broke ; hers  had 
been  near  breaking  a thousand  times,  but  never  so  near  as 
now. 

Self-possession  was  slow  in  returning,  and  it  was  a long 
while  before  she  was  calm.  When  she  looked  in  at  the 
window  again  her  teeth  suddenly  set,  and  she  tore  her 
dagger  from  her  bosom  as  if  she  was  about  rushing  into  the 
hovel.  Discretion  restrained  her  in  time,  and  she  stayed 
where  she  was. 

Nella  had  regained  consciousness,  and  they  had  gagged 
her  and  bound  her  to  her  chair  ! 

Maso  and  the  two  men  who  had  assisted  him  in  the  ab- 
duction of  the  girl  were  sitting  on  the  floor  smoking. 

Nella’s  eyes  wandered  everywhere  except  to  the  window, 
outside  of  which  the  woman  was  standing. 


48 


THE  LILIES  OF  FLORENCE, 


Time  and  again  the  woman  thought  she  heard  approach- 
ing voices,  and  each  time,  when  she  found  that  she  was 
deceived,  her  despondoncy  was  increased. 

“ Has  the  boy  lost  his  way,  or  will  no  one  come  with 
him  ? Fool  that  I am,  I should  have  gone  myself.’* 

The  wind  and  the  rain  were  her  only  answer.  Inside 
the  cabin  the  men  still  smoked,  and  Nella’s  eyes  were  still 
glittering  with  vigilant  hopefulness. 

“ Oh  ! girl ! girl ! girl ! ” exclaimed  the  woman  ; you 
are  young,  innocent,  and  unaware  of  your  danger.  May 
heaven,  if  there  be  a heaven,  protect  you  ! But  it  will  not. 
It  is  woman’s  fate  to  sin  and  sorrow.  Oh  ! God ! I never 
knew  what  dishonor  meant  until  now  ! If  these  villains 
are  foiled,  and  this  girl  really  is  my  daughter,  how 
can  I tell  her  who  I am?  Such  a mother ! I sink  under 
the  blow  which  my  own  hand  has  inflicted.  Yes,  my 
own  hand ; mine  was  the  first  transgression.  This  sweet 
child,  if  her  arms  were  about  me,  could  take  me  to  the 
realm  of  eternal  bliss  ; but  there  is  such  a bridge  between 
us.  I dare  not  even  let  her  know  whose  hand  saves  her. 
Never  before  did  I so  feel  the  penalty  of  error  and  the 
weight  of  sin.” 

There  was  unmistakably  the  sound  of  approaching 
voices  now,  and  the  woman  stepped  away  from  the  win- 
dow so  that  the  light  might  not  betray  her  to  unfriendly 
eyes. 

Then  a slight  form  rushed  toward  her  out  of  the  darkness, 
and  the  boy,  her  messenger,  caught  her  eagerly  by  the  arm. 

I found  help,”  he  said,  breathlessly  ; three  officers 
and  another  man  are  with  me.” 

She  clasped  the  boy  to  her  breast  and  kissed  him.  How 
wet  he  was  ? It  was  the  first  time  she  had  thought  of  the 
storm. 

“ All  blessings  be  yours,  faithful  boy,”  she  said.  What 
you  will  receive  for  this  night’s  work  will  keep  you  in 
comfort  all  your  life.” 

Her  pleasure  at  what  he  had  accomplished  was  more  to 
liim  than  the  promised  reward. 

Here  are  the  men  I brought  you,”  ne  said,  as  they 
came  up. 

She  stepped  forward  to  meet  them. 

The  fury  of  the  storm  was  increasing,  and  the  group 
outside  of  the  hovel  could  scarcely  stand  before  it. 

''Did  you  send  this  boy  for  assistance  ?”  asked  one  of 
the  officers. 


THE  LILIES  OF  FLORENCE. 


49 


‘‘Yes.  Some  ruffians  have  abducted  a young  girl.  For 
what  purpose  I do  not  know.  She  is  in  this  hovel,  bound 
and  gagged.  Save  her,  unharmed,  and  whatever  price  you 
choose  to  demand  for  the  service  is  yours.” 

The  man  bowed  respectfully. 

“We  will  try  to  do  our  duty,”  he  said.  “That  was  our 
purpose  in  coming.  Still,  if  we  can  do  what  you  ask,  and 
you  offer  us  recompense,  we  are  too  poor  to  refuse  it.” 

While  he  was  speaking  the  others  advanced  to  the  win- 
dow which  had  been  the  woman’s  post  of  observation. 

“ It  will  be  easy  to  get  the  girl,”  said  one  of  the  officers, 
as  the  woman  joined  them.  “We  have  only  to  break  the 
door  in  and  seize  all  the  others.” 

“ Do  so  quickly,  then,”  said  the  man  who  came  with  the 
officers. 

Something  in  his  voice  startled  the  woman  and  caused 
here  to  gaze  into  his  face,  but  the  darkness  prevented  her 
distinguishing  his  features  ; so,  half  in  doubt,  she  returned 
to  the  window,  while  the  others  moved  cautiously  toward 
the  door. 

How  her  heart  beat ! Was  it  wholly  because  of  the 
danger  of  the  girl  in  the  hovel,  or  had  the  voice  which  she 
had  just  heard  some  part  in  it  ? She  could  not  tell. 

With  her  face  pressed  closely  against  the  window,  she 
anxiously  awaited  the  opening  of  the  door. 

Maso  still  sat  on  the  floor  smoking.  His  two  com- 
panions were  sleeping  near  him.  The  crone  lay  in  the 
corner  among  her  rags. 

Nella’s  eyes  wandered  from  Maso  to  the  door,  and 
thence  back  to  Maso,  continually. 

Well  she  knew  her  fate  unless  help  came.  Disappointed 
in  winning  her  love,  Maso  had  waited  for  what  seemed  a 
safe  moment  in  which  to  carry  her  off  by  force. 

He  and  his  brothers  had  invaded  her  bed-chamber  and 
awakened  her.  She  had  resisted  them  with  all  her  might, 
and  stabbed  one  of  them  with  her  dagger  ; but  they  soon 
overcame  her,  and  forced  some  noxious  drug  into  her 
mouth.  Almost  instantly  she  became  senseless  ; when 
she  came  to  she  was  in  old  Taddeo’s  hovel.  In  answer  to 
the  first  W’ord  which  she  then  uttered,  Maso  had  bound 
and  gagged  her. 

How  angry  it  made  her  to  think  it  all  over  i How  sud- 
denly and  exasperatingly  was  her  happy  life  overshad- 
owed! From  those  halcyon  days  in  Count  Ahmberg’s 
palace,  where,  as  the  betrothed  wife  of  Fritz,  earth  had 

4 


50 


THE  LILIES  OF  FLORENCE. 


been  sweeter  than  paradise,  she  had  been  snatched  away 
to  please  the  impulse  of  a pauper. 

It  was  the  first  she  had  realized  how  much  she  loved 
Fritz. 

Was  he  lost  to  her  forever  ? It  could  not  be  ; surely 
heaven  would  not  permit  that. 

Would  he  find  that  she  was  gone,  and  seek  her  in  time  ? 
She  doubted  if  he  would  think  of  Maso  ; she  had  almost 
forgotten  his  protested  love  herself.  No  one  would  know 
in  what  direction  to  search  for  her. 

Still,  she  believed  that  she  would  in  some  way  escape 
Maso.  If  help  did  not  come,  she  would  save  herself.  She 
would  feign  content,  and  so  obtain  something  with  which 
she  could  kill  her  cowardly  abductor. 

The  thought  of  vengeance  sent  a gold  glitter  into  her 
eyes.  Vengeance,  next  to  love,  is  woman’s  sweetest 
thought. 

There  was  a knife  on  the  floor  near  Maso’s  hand.  Its 
blade  was  long  and  keen.  How  much  she  wanted  to  run 
it  through  his  heart ! 

Then  the  window  fell  in. 

The  woman  outside  had  leaned  too  heavily  against  it. 

She  disappeared  the  instant  of  her  mishap,  and  no  one 
in  the  hovel  saw  her. 

Knife  in  hand,  Maso  sprang  to  his  feet.  So  did  his 
brothers. 

Their  eyes  were  fixed  upon  the  rude  casement  whence 
the  sash  had  fallen. 

It  was  the  wind,”  muttered  Maso,  after  a moment. 

The  storm  drove  the  window  in.” 

Nella’s  eyes  glistened  with  a new  emotion.  Her  per- 
ception was  keener  than  Maso’s. 

She  knew  that  he  was  mistaken.  No  draught  followed  the 
falling  of  the  sash.  The  wind  was  blowing  from  the  oppo- 
site direction  ! 

She  believed  that  someone  had  pushed  the  window  in. 

What  if  it  was  help  ? 

The  thought  made  her  heart  beat  so  loudly  that  she 
feared  Maso  would  hear  it. 

He  crossed  the  room,  and  picking  up  the  sash,  re- 
placed it. 

Then  the  door  was  thrown  open,  and  Count  Ahmberg 
sprang  in,  followed  by  the  three  officers. 

Maso  knew’  that  this  unexpected  arrival  meant  some- 
thing worse  than  death  for  him,  so  he  determined  to 


THE  LILIES  OF  FLORENCE.  51 

invoke  capital  punishment  and  thwart  Count  Ahmberg  at 
the  same  moment. 

With  uplifted  knife  he  rushed  upon  Nella.  The  Count 
seized  him  and  flung  him  aside. 

Then  the  crone  tripped  Count  Ahmberg,  and  he  fell 
upon  his  face  at  Nella’s  feet. 

With  the  quickness  of  lightning,  and  with  the  yell  of  a 
fiend,  Maso  caught  Nella  by  the  shoulder,  and,  raising 
his  knife  again,  aimed  his  downward  stroke  at  her  bosom. 

Believing  that  death  was  upon  her  the  helpless  girl 
closed  her  eyes. 

Down  came  the  knife,  but  not  in  the  girl’s  heart. 

The  Count  had  risen  upon  his  knees,  and  the  murderous 
blade,  which  he  was  unable  to  arrest,  went  straight 
through  his  left  hand. 

Nella  was  saved  ! 

Maso  missed  his  aim  and  lost  his  balance  at  the  same 
time,  and  sprawled  upon  the  floor  between  Nella  and  the 
Count. 

The  next  moment  Count  Ahmberg’s  foot  was  crushing 
Maso’s  throat. 

Having  secured  his  struggling  brothers,  the  officers 
then  came  forward  and  bound  Maso. 

Coolly  pulling  the  knife  from  his  wounded  hand,  the 
Count  wiped  the  blood  from  the  blade,  and  cut  the  ropes 
which  held  Nella  a captive  in  the  chair.  Removing  the 
gag  from  her  mouth  he  pressed  her  to  his  heart. 

‘‘  Dear  Nella,”  he  said,  you  are  safe  at  last ! ” 

‘‘  How  did  you  find  me  ? ” 

‘‘  Some  woman — some  angel,  I think — saw  these  ruffians 
carrying  you  away.  She  followed  you  here,  and  sent  a 
boy  for  help.  I was  in  the  streets  looking  for  you,  and 
met  the  boy  and  the  officers  at  the  Ponte  Vecchio.  Con- 
vinced that  I would  find  you  here  I came  with  them.” 

‘‘The  woman  must  have  been  an  angel  !”  said  Nella. 

“Yes,”  said  a voice  at  her  side;  “ but  an  angel  with 
scorched  wings.” 

Count  Ahmberg  started  as  if  another  knife  had  been 
thrust  into  him.  It  was  years  since  he  had  heard  that 
voice. 

He  and  Nella  turned  their  heads  and  looked  into  the 
face  of  the  woman  to  whom  the  girl  owed  her  rescue. 

The  woman  had  once  been  very  beautiful,  and  still 
had  a remarkable  face  ; but  it  was  grooved  with  sorrow 
lines,  and  her  hair  was  white. 


52 


THE  LILIES  OF  FLORENCE. 


“Count  Ahmberg,’'  she  said,  “you  have  just  performed 
the  bravest  act  of  your  life.  An  hour  ago  I could  have 
slain  you.  Now  I would  kill  anyone  who  raised  a 
hand  against  you.  Do  not  speak  my  name,  but  tell  me  if 
this  girl  is  not  the  daughter  of— you  know  who  ?” 

His  tongue  seemed  frozen.  He  could  not  speak  ; but 
she  saw  her  answer  in  her  eyes. 

“I  was  sure  of  it!’*  she  muttered.  Then  turning  to 
Nella,  she  continued:  “Dear,  I was  a friend  of  your 
mother’s.  For  her  sake,  will  you  let  me  kiss  you  once  — 
not  on  your  pure  mouth — on  your  cheek  ; I cannot  pol- 
lute that  ? ” 

Nella  took  the  woman’s  face  between  her  hands  and 
kissed  her  lips  again  and  again. 

“ It  is  you,”  she  said,  “ whom  I must  thank  for  my 
rescue — for  my  life.’* 

“Nay,”  said  the  woman.  “You  owe  your  thanks  to 
Count  Ahmberg  and  to  God.  Yes,  to  God  ! I once  more 
believe  that  there  is  a God ! ” 

Then,  with  a sad  smile,  she  took  Count  Ahmberg’s  arm 
and  asked  him  to  step  aside  with  her  for  a moment. 

In  silent  wonderment  Nella  watched  them  cross  the  room 
together. 

A friend  of  her  mother’s  ! And  how  strangely  she  had 
spoken.  Nella’s  mind  was  in  a tumult.  Suspicion  fol- 
lowed suspicion,  and  doubt  followed  doubt. 

“Count  Ahmberg,”  said  the  woman,  “you  have  saved  a 
life  that  is  dearer  to  me  than  my  own,  and  so  you  have 
cancelled  my  hatred.  Tell  me,  how  came  she  with  you  ? ” 

“ Lucrezia  found  her  in  the  lilies  when  she  was  but  a 
year  old.” 

“ Has  she  been  with  you  ever  since  ?” 

“ No.  She  lived  in  this  hovel  for  several  years.” 

“ In  this  hovel  ? ” 

“Yes;  through  my  stubbornness.  I tried  to  drown  her, 
and  the  husband  of  yonder  hag  saved  her  life.  She  came 
back  to  us  four  years  ago,  and  now  she  is  to  marry  Fritz.” 

“ Yx\\,z—your  son  ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

She  wept  even  more  bitterly  than  she  did  under  the  win- 
dow an  hour  before. 

“And  you  consented  willingly  ?” 

“ I consented  gladly'" 

For  some  time  she  was  silent  and  stood  looking  at  the 
floor. 


THE  LILIES  OF  FLORENCE, 


53 


“All  the  happiness  T have  ever  known  I owe  to  you/* 
she  said.  “ Tell  me  how  to  thank  you  for  this.** 

“ By  taking  the  place  in  my  household  which  you  have 
always  had  in  my  heart.*’ 

She  looked  at  him  in  surprise. 

“ I do  not  understand  you,”  she  said. 

“ Be  my  wife  ?” 

A look  of  horror  came  upon  her  face. 

“Your  wife  ! *’  she  murmured.  “Impossible  ! Do  not 
tempt  me  with  such  happiness.” 

“ Do  you  not  love  me  ? I see  the  old  light  in  your  eyes.** 

“ Love  you  ? Aye,  too  well  to  smear  your  home  with 
pitch.” 

“ But  why  not  marry  me  ? Your  husband  is  dead.” 

“Husband!  I never  had  a husband!”  she  exclaimed, 
bitterly. 

“ What  else  could  you  call  him  ? You  thought  the  mar- 
riage legal.” 

“ I found  out  the  mistake,  though,  when  it  was  too  late.” 

“What  matters  it  ? You  are  pure  and  spotless  as  you 
have  always  been.  That  accursed  trick  has  made  you  none 
the  worse.” 

“ It  gave  me  a nameless  daughter,”  she  said,  glancing 
sadly  at  Nella. 

“You  are  morbid,  Bianca,**  answered  the  Count. 

“ Hush,  do  not  speak  my  name  so  loudly.  Morbidness 
is  a taint  of  my  father’s  family.  Then,  too,  how  else  could 
I feel  ? Could  I look  that  sweet  girl  in  the  face  and  tell 
her  that  her  father  was  not  my  husband  ? ** 

“ But  why  need  she  know  it  ?** 

“ Have  you  never  told  her  ? Does  she  not  know  ? ** 

“ Not  a word.” 

She  kissed  the  Count’s  hand. 

“ God  bless  you  ! **  she  said.  “ I owe  you  thanks  for  so 
many  things.” 

He  smiled  sadly. 

“ Reward  me,  then,  with  the  happiness  I so  earnestly 
seek  at  your  hands.  Be  my  wife,  and  let  our  sorrows  end 
so.” 

“ You  know  I would  but  for  that  one  insurmountable 
barrier.  True,  I thought  myself  married,  but  my  igno- 
rance does  not  remove  the  stain.  The  blight  is  on  me. 
My  one  mad  caprice  visited  consequences  upon  me  which 
sent  the  joy  and  glory  all  out  of  my  life.  Now  I must 
turn  away  from  the  love  for  which  I would  have  bartered 


54 


THE  LILIES  OF  FLORENCE, 


my  soul  ? Could  any  enemy  wish  to  see  me  in  a sorrier 
plight  ? You  must  say  no  more  to  me  of  marriage  : in  some 
moment  of  weakness  I might  consent/’ 

‘‘Would  to  God  such  a moment  would  come  !”  he  said. 
“ You  are  cruel  to  let  sentiment  separate  us  again  ; we  who 
have  suffered  so  much  for  each  other’s  sake  ! No  one 
knows  of  your  misfortune.  Do  be  dissuaded  from  your 
decision.” 

She  shook  her  head  and  the  tears  came  back  into  her  eyes, 

“ Stop,”  she  said.  “ I dare  not  listen  to  you  any  longer. 
You  and  I know  my  degradation,  and  that  is  enough. 
Promise  me  one  thing,  however.  Do  not  let  my  daughter 
know  the  story  of  her  birth.  Tell  her  anything  but  the 
truth.  Your  son,  though,  should  know  it.  You  had  best 
teir  him.  And  now,  good-by!  Perhaps — not  forever  ; I 
shall  want  to  see  you  sometimes,  and  my  daughter,  too. 
Oh  ! you  can  never  know  the  peace  that  filled  my  breast 
when,  for  that  one  instant,  I held  her  to  my  heart  and  felt  her 
kisses  upon  my  lips!  It  saved  my  soul.  Once  more,  as  in 
my  girlhood,  the  songs  of  the  angels  are  in  my  ears,  and  I 
can  think  of  death  without  shrinking.  The  bitterness  is  all 
gone  out  of  my  heart,  and  I have  rebelled  against  God  for 
the  last  time.” 

She  gave  him  her  hand.  Gently  he  drew  her  closer  to 
him. 

“ Bianca,  will  you  not  kiss  me  ? ” 

She  slowly  advanced  nearer  to  him,  and  there  was  a wist- 
ful look  in  her  eyes.  She  was  about  yielding.  Then  a 
sudden  pallor  came  upon  her  face,  and  she  snatched  her 
hand  away  and  drew  back. 

“I  dare  not!”  she  exclaimed,  and  then  she  hurried 
across  the  room  to  Nella. 

“ Good-by,  dear,”  she  said  to  the  girl.  “ Some  day  I 
mav  see  you  again,  and  then  I may  talk  with  you  about — 
your  mother.” 

They  embraced,  and  with  Nella’s  kisses  fresh  upon  her 
lips,  Bianca  left  the  hovel. 

Outside  she  listened  for  a moment.  The  storm  beat  in 
her  face  unheeded.  Firmness  and  calmness  were  displaced 
by  unrest  and  wavering. 

Maternal  love  wrestled  with  fear,  and  marital  love  with 
pride.  What  was  she  so  deliberately  putting  out  of  her 
life  ? Her  new-found  daughter,  whom  she  had  so  long  be- 
lieved was  dead  ; and  the  man  she  so  dearly  loved  ! Was 
it  not  almost  heartless  ? Should  she  go  back  ? 


THE  LILIES  OF  FLORENCE. 


55 


She  ran  to  the  window.  One  glance  at  Nella  decided 
her.  The  girl’s  frank  eyes  would  be  an  endless  reproach 
to  her,  and  she  could  not  look  in  that  pure  face  and  tell  so 
damning  a story. 

Her  lips  must  not  refuse  the  potion  she  saw  in  the 
dreadful  cup  before  her. 

Only  for  an  instant  she  lingered  ; then,  with  a wail  that 
would  have  moved  the  Furies,  she  dashed  away  in  the 
storm. 

When  Bianca  left  the  hovel,  the  soul  of  Nella  seemed  to 
have  gone  with  her.  Count  Ahmberg  was  frightened 
when  he  looked  at  the  girl. 

He  half  believed  that  she  had  guessed  the  truth.  The 
color  had  left  her  cheeks  and  lips,  and  her  eyes  were  set 
and  glazed.  Horror,  dread,  fear,  everything  bewildering 
and  perplexing,  was  stamped  upon  her  lovely  face. 

Was  her  reason  going  ? 

How  could  he  divert  the  dangerous  current  of  her 
thought  into  some  other  channel  ? 

Something  glittered  on  the  floor  by  the  girl’s  feet.  It 
was  Maso’s  knife.  Ah  ! he  saw  a way  to  save  her  now. 

Her  eyes  were  fixed  upon  the  door  which  had  just  closed 
after  Bianca. 

Stepping  to  her  side  he  held  his  mangled  hand  before 
her  face. 

Nella,  see  what  Maso  gave  me  for  a keepsake.” 

The  moment  she  saw  the  wound  she  burst  into  tears 
and  threw  herself  into  his  arms. 

Thank  God!”  he  said,  softly,  and  his  tears  mingled 
with  hers. 


V. 

THE  JUGGERNAUT. 

For  hours  the  rain  drove  against  Count  Ahmberg’s  pal- 
ace, and  the  wind  roared  and  howled  around  it. 

In  another  hour  it  would  be  daylight,  and  still  old  Lu- 
crezia  was  alone. 

Slowly  and  sadly  she  walked  up  and  down  the  long  cor- 
ridor. Her  head  was  bowed,  and  her  withered,  skinny 
hands  were  clenched  tightly  upon  her  back. 

“ This  night,”  she  muttered,  ‘‘  determines  the  fate  of  the 


56 


THE  LILIES  OF  FLORENCE, 


house.  Without  Nella,  Fritz  will  pine  as  his  mother  did. 
The  Count,  too,  will  suffer,  he  lias  grown  to  love  her  so. 

“ Ah,  I have  seen  strange  fortunes  come  to  this  house  ! 
Its  morning  was  bright  and  joyous,  its  day  was  serene  and 
splendid,  but  its  night  seems  likely  to  end  in  moonless 
gloom. 

“ The  old  nurse  has  lived  too  long,  and  she  has  seen  more 
blight  than  bloom  the  portion  of  those  she  loves.  God  grant 
this  shadow  passes,  or  that  the  end  comes  soon  to  us  all ! 

‘‘Oh,  my  gentle  mistress,  sweet  LadyAhmberg,  why  did 
you  not  live  longer  ? Else,  why  did  you  live  so  long  ? It 
would  have  been  better,  much  better,  either  way. 

“ Fate  is  so  strong,  and  humanity  is  so  blind.  God’s 
ways  are  beyond  man’s  knowledge,  and  his  weakness  is 
stronger  than  man’s  strength. 

“ How  little  we  are,  and  how  little  we  know.  Tliat 
which  seems  inevitable  too  often  comes  to  naught. 

“When  we  found  the  dream-babe  in  the  wet  lilies,  I said 
she  would  yet  wed  Fritz.  When  she  came  back  to  us,  un- 
harmed by  the  Arno,  I said  it  again.  But  now  ! They 
are  gone — perhaps  forever.  I am  only  a fool,  after  all. 
Time  has  lent  me  no  wisdom.” 

Back  and  forth,  up  and  down  the  corridor  she  continued 
to  walk,  never  changing  her  measured,  monotonous  pace. 

Momentarily  she  became  more  moody  and  bitter.  It 
ill  profits  a servant  to  outlive  the  prosperity  of  her  house. 
What  has  been  is  always  sweeter  than  what  is.  She 
thought  only  of  the  past  and  the  present.  To  her  there 
was  no  future.  The  hour-glass  of  Saturn  was  broken  in 
two  and  the  halves  thrown  away. 

“ It  is  morning,”  she  said  after  a while.  “The  morning 
of  the  last  day  of  my  lady’s  house  ! ” 

Before  the  sound  of  her  voice  was  dead  in  the  corridor, 
as  if  in  answer  to  what  she  said,  the  outer  door  was  swung 
open  and  Count  Ahmberg  entered  with  Nella. 

Lucrezia  moved  swiftly  forward  and  kissed  their  hands. 

“Thank  God  ! ” she  cried,  and  the  others  said  : 

“ Amen  ! ” 

How  speedily  is  the  blackness  of  despair  changed  into 
the  joyousness  of  hope.  When  one  thing  we  thought  lost 
comes  back  to  us  we  are  at  once  sanguine  that  all  things 
else  will  go  as  we  wish. 

So  when  the  Count  asked  after  Fritz,  she  said  : 

“ He  will  come  presently.  He  is  still  in  the  streets  look- 
ing for  Nella.” 


THE  LILIES  OF  FLOREHCE, 


57 


Again,  as  if  in  answer  to  her,  the  outer  door  swung  open 
and  clanged  back. 

Fritz  had  come. 

With  a glad  cry  Nella  sprang  into  his  arms.  That  one 
moment  of  bliss  well  compensated  the  lovers  for  the  trials 
of  the  night. 

“When  I found  that  you  were  here,  darling  Nella,  I 
came  more  swiftly  than  the  wind,”  said  Fritz.  ‘‘  No  storm 
could  impede  me  then.” 

Nella  drew  back  in  surprise. 

“ When  you  found  that  I was  here  ! ” she  repeated. 
“ Why,  who  told  you  that  ? ” 

“ The  lady  who  followed  you  to  old  Taddeo’s  hovel  and 
then  called  the  officers.  Maso  struck  me  down  at  her 
door  when  I was  pursuing  him.  Her  servants  carried  me 
in  out  of  the  storm  senseless.  When  I became  conscious 
the  lady  had  returned.  She  gave  me  wine  and  a note  for 
you,  Nella.  When  she  described  my  father’s  bravery  she 
wept.  It  is  but  a moment  since  I left  her.  Love  more 
than  the  wine  helped  me  here.” 

Eager  to  read  the  strange  woman’s  note,  Nella  was  glad 
of  the  excuse  to  go  to  her  room  for  dry  clothing.  Lucrezia 
went  with  her,  so  she  laid  the  note  on  the  table  with  a 
sigh  and  disrobed. 

Then  Lucrezia  went  away,  and  the  impatient  girl,  as 
naked  as  she  was  when  they  found  her  in  the  lilies,  broke 
the  seal  and  read  what  her  mother  had  written. 

Little  she  dreamed  whose  hand  had  traced  those  dainty 
lines  aross  the  tinted  sheet. 

‘‘  Sweet  child,”  the  note  ran,  “ your  abduction  last  night 
was  by  God’s  providence.  But  for  it  your  mother  might 
never  have  known  that  you  lived.  For  years  she  has 
mourned  you  as  dead.  She  lives  in  retiracy,  and  I alone 
of  all  her  early  friends  know  the  secret  of  her  hiding- 
place. 

“ Before  I sleep  again  I will  gladden  her  sorrowing 
heart  with  the  joyful  news  that  her  daughter  lives.  You 
will  see  her  when  she  has  done  suitable  penance  for  a 
great  sin  which  she  committed  unknowingly.  Until  then 
you  must  wait,  though  the  time  may  be  long. 

“ Be  not  impatient.  Her  life  has  been  an  endless  sacri- 
fice for  you.  Reward  her  with  your  love  and  steadfast- 
ness. 

“ Wed  the  Count’s  son  as  soon  as  he  wants  you.  Be- 
lieve me,  dear  maiden,  it  is  your  only  safety.  Many 


58 


THE  LILIES  OF  FLORENCE, 


dangers  menace  you  which  this  can  avert.  Such  loveliness 
as  yours  is  deepest  peril  in  itself. 

‘‘  Ask  no  questions  of  the  Count.  You  will  but  embarrass 
him  in  his  duty.  He  has  already  told  you  all  he  can, 
without  injury  to  she  who  bore  you.  The  rest  must  come  to 
you  from  your  mother's  lips  ! Do  not  forget  that.  Patience 
is  difficult ; but  you  have  it  if  you  are,  indeed,  your 
mother’s  daughter.  Then,  trust  those  who  love  you,  wed 
Fritz — and  wait ! ” 

How  strange,”  murmured  Nella  ; how  very  strange.” 

A dreamy  expression  came  upon  her  face,  and  the  note 
fell  from  her  hand  to  the  floor. 

Sitting  back  in  her  chair,  she  succumbed  to  reveries. 

She  wondered  if  any  other  woman  had  ever  lived  so 
strange  a life.  She  doubted  it. 

The  hand  of  Fate  seemed  to  have  shaped  the  coming 
and  going  of  all  her  days. 

Stolen  from  her  mother  in  her  babyhood,  she  had  been 
rescued  from  death  in  the  Arno  through  the  infant  son  of 
the  woman  who  in  some  degree  was  her  mother’s  rival. 

Snatched  away  from  him,  by  what  was  little  else  than  a 
madman’s  freak,  she  had  been  saved  from  death  a second 
time,  to  have  her  girlhood  surrounded  by  privation  and 
poverty. 

At  first  she  had  not  minded  it.  Song  had  been  as  much 
her  natural  expression  as  speech  ; so  when  old  Taddeo’s 
family  found  that  the  music  in  her  childish  voice  was 
bringing  them  abundance  of  coin,  they  ceased  grudging 
her  the  little  coarse  food  she  ate,  and  the  still  coarser  rags 
which  protected  her  pearly  skin  from  the  warm  Tuscan 
sun. 

Year  after  year  she  sang  in  the  streets,  and  two  of  her 
foster-brothers  were  always  with  her,  twanging  their 
mandolins  and  snapping  up,  greedily,  every  gift  which 
rewarded  her  singing. 

After  a time  men  began  looking  strangely  at  her 
scantily-clad  form,  and  sometimes  they  were  bold  enough 
to  whisper  in  her  ears  things  which  she  only  half  under- 
stood. 

Frightened,  she  had  begged  for  something  to  thwart 
these  vicious,  prying  eyes.  But  old  Taddeo’s  wife  said 
no  ; if  she  wore  longer  skirts  and  a whole  waist  she  would 
receive  less  coin  ; she  was  very  beautiful,  and  people  paid 
as  much  for  seeing  as  for  hearing. 

So  she  had  been  compelled  to  wear  her  scanty  rags. 


THE  LILIES  OF  FLORENCE, 


59 


Sometimes  the  wintry  blasts  and  the  cruel  snow  nearly 
froze  her  little  feet  and  limbs,  but  the  whip  in  Taddeo's 
hovel  stung  worse  than  the  frost. 

One  day  she  stood  and  looked  into  the  Arno,  and 
thought  how  sweet  and  peaceful  it  would  be  to  sleep  under 
its  rippling  waves.  Prying  eyes  and  curses  could  not 
follow  her  there,  and  the  river  bottom  would  be  a softer 
bed  than  they  gave  her  at  Taddeo's. 

The  next  day  she  found  Fritz.  Since  then  she  had 
learnt  what  life  really  was.  Soon  she  would  be  his  wife, 
and  her  face  and  neck  burned  at  the  thought. 

Lost  in  a bewildering  maze  of  blissful  fancies,  her  eyes 
closed,  and  she  slept. 

In  her  dream,  which  came  with  that  strange  morning 
sleep,  she  saw  vague,  indistinct  shapes,  and  heard  words 
which  seemed  to  have  no  meaning  beyond  the  menacing 
tone  in  which  they  were  uttered. 

There  was  one  word,  or  rather  a sound — for  she  could 
not  distinguish  what  the  word  was — which  seemed  more 
dreadful  than  the  others.  The  ghoulish  phantoms  hissed 
it,  one  after  another,  and  then  they  hissed  it  together. 

Each  time  it  was  said  every  nerve  in  the  girl's  body 
seemed  keenly  sensitive  to  its  dire  poignancy. 

From  her  white  brow  a crimson  flush,  the  offended  tide 
of  perfect  chastity,  swept  rapidly  downward,  for  all  that 
was  pure  and  maidenly  within  her  quivered  with  the  con- 
sciousness that  the  portent  of  the  mystic  word  was  shame. 

So  deeply  did  that  ghoulish  hiss  burn  itself  into  her  inno- 
cent soul  that  her  mental  perceptions  were  deadened,  and 
her  physical  sensibilities  became  abnormally  acute. 

Yet  she  felt  that  her  condition  was  fast  becoming  dan- 
gerous, sleeping  though  she  was. 

There  was  a weight  upon  her  breast,  a numb  and  crush- 
ing sense  of  woe  which  she  had  never  felt  before. 

Nearer  to  her  came  the  black,  shapeless,  awful  shadows, 
and  louder  and  fiercer  they  hissed  that  fiendish  word.  The 
air  teemed  with  spectral  phantasms,  which  came  and  dis- 
solved continually. 

She  no  longer  saw  them  and  she  no  longer  heard  them, 
but  she  felt  their  presence  as  the  blind  feel  sunlight  ; and 
as  the  dumb  feel  the  noise  of  a storm,  to  which  their  ears 
are  senseless,  she  still  felt  the  malicious  force  of  that  often 
reiterated  hiss. 

Then  a change  came.  She  could  hear  again,  but  the 
sound  which  came  to  her  ears  no  longer  tortured  her. 


6o 


THE  LILIES  OF  FLORENCE. 


She  was  thrilled  instead. 

The  black,  goblin  shapes,  too,  gave  place  to  seraphic 
hosts. 

They  sang — a single  word,  over  and  over  again. 

The  word  at  last  became  to  her  as  the  echo  of  the  emo- 
tion in  her  heart.  The  word  was  “ peace.*’ 

She  awakened  and  sprang  to  her  feet  with  a cry  of  joy, 
surprised  that  she  had  slept,  naked,  in  her  chair. 

As  she  was  about  kneeling  to  thank  God  that  the  dream, 
like  so  many  of  her  troubles,  was  over,  she  heard  the 
shuffle  of  feet  at  her  side. 

Hastily  catching  up  a mantle  she  covered  herself  and 
faced  her  intruder. 

It  was  Lucrezia. 

The  girl  dropped  the  mantle  and  dressed  herself.  Lu- 
crezia watched  her  in  silence. 

“Why  are  you  so  quiet,  Lucrezia?  Your  face  looks 
grave  and  troubled.” 

“Your  dream  frightened  me.” 

“ My  dream  ? ” 

“Yes.  You  kept  muttering  one  word  over  and  over 
again,  until  I feared  that  you  would  die  with  the  awful 
word  on  your  lips.” 

“ What  was  the  word  ? ” 

Lucrezia  shuddered. 

All  dreams  to  her  were  forecasts  of  realities.  She  feared 
to  speak. 

“ What  was  the  word,  Lucrezia  ? Tell  me.” 

“It  was  ‘ Bastard  ! * ” 

Nella  laughed. 

“ It  was  only  a dream,  Lucrezia,  and  has  no  meaning 
for  me.” 

“ Be  not  so  sure.” 

Nella  frowned. 

“Why,  I am  no  bastard,  am  I ?”  she  asked,  a little  im- 
patiently. 

“ No,  no  ; not  that.  I saw  your  sweet  mother  married 
myself.  The  danger  is  in  another  direction.” 

“ What  do  you  mean,  Lucrezia?” 

“ Love  is  stronger  than  virtue.” 

Though  her  cheeks  burned,  Nella  laughed. 

“ Lucrezia,”  she  said,  “ you  are  getting  silly.” 

And  then  she  kissed  the  old  nurse  and  ran  out  into  the 
corridor. 

“ Whatever  my  mother’s  sin  may  be,”  she  said  to  herself, 


THE  LILIES  OF  FLORENCE. 


6i 


“ there  is  no  stain  upon  her  virtue.  Thank  God  for  that ! 
Lucrezia  saw  her  married.  I wonder  when  I shall  see 
her?’* 

When  the  delicious  days  came,  the  days  which  are  neither 
summer  nor  autumn,  but  which  partake  of  the  nature  of 
both,  there  was  a wedding  in  the  old  Etruscan  palace. 

Nella  and  Fritz  became  husband  and  wife. 

When  the  last  words  were  spoken,  and  the  twain  were 
made  forever  one,  Count  Ahmberg  chanced  to  look  at  Lu- 
crezia. 

The  expression  upon  her  face  brought  a smile  upon  his. 
The  time  had  been  when  he  would  have  frowned  instead. 

It  was  difficult  to  judge  whether  the  marriage  of  the  two 
she  loved  so  well,  or  the  justification  of  her  idea  of  fate, 
gave  her  the  most  genuine  satisfaction. 

“ Well,  Lucrezia,”  said  the  Count,  “ you  guessed  the 
riddle  rightly,  when  the  dream-babe  and  the  dreaming  boy 
played  here,  upon  this  very  floor,  seventeen  years  ago.” 

How  much  it  pleased  her  to  have  him  acknowledge  it. 

‘‘And — you  believe  in  fate  now  ?” 

He  took  her  by  the  shoulders  and  shook  her  laugh- 
ingly. 

“ Be  happy,  good  old  Lucrezia  ; I am  a firm  believer  in 
fate  ! ” 

In  a year  a daughter  was  born  to  Fritz  and  Nella,  and 
after  that  the  old  palace  rang  with  mirth  and  laughter. 

There  was  no  cloud,  no  break  in  the  perfect  harmony, 
save  when  Lucrezia  thought  of  Nella’s  dream. 

Many  a time  she  was  about  describing  it  to  the  Count, 
but  each  time  she  feared  that  he  might  think  her  foolish, 
so  she  said  nothing. 

Had  she  known  the  sinister  spell  a word  from  her  would 
have  broken,  no  power,  save  death,  could  have  kept  her 
silent. 

It  is  human,  though,  to  be  silent  at  the  wrong  time. 

Happy  in  her  husband’s  love,  and  in  their  mutual  love 
for  Tessa,  the  babe,  Nella  had  long  since  forgotten  the 
dream. 

She  had  almost  forgotten  her  mother. 

Five  years  passed  away. 

Fritz,  Nella,  Tessa,  and  the  Count  still  lived  in  the  dear 
old  palace,  in  the  City  of  Lilies. 

Lucrezia,  who  seemed  to  grow  younger,  rather  than 
older,  was  still  with  them. 

Tessa  was  the  delight  of  all  their  hearts. 


62 


THE  LILIES  OF  FLORENCE. 


She  was  a gay  little  creature,  with  her  mother’s  voice 
and  her  father’s  eyes. 

Born  of  dual  nations,  as  well  as  of  dual  natures,  she  had 
more  moods  than  the  thrush  has  songs. 

To  the  Count,  there  was  but  one  source  of  uneasiness. 

Bianca. 

If  she  were  but  with  them,  as  she  should  be,  the  atmos- 
phere of  the  old  palace  would  be  divine. 

But  she  was  so  perverse. 

He  feared  that  he  never  should  see  her  again. 

As  soon  as  Maso  and  his  brothers  had  been  punished  for 
the  abduction  of  Nella,  Bianca  had  left  Florence.  At  least 
so  her  servants  said. 

Hov7  like  her  mother  Nella  grew.  At  times  the  Count 
called  her  Bianca,  and  could  scarcely  think  of  her  other- 
wise. 

Nella,  though  matronly,  as  all  Italian  mothers  are,  still 
held  her  beauty. 

Some  days  she  filled  the  palace  with  song.  The  simple 
ballads  which  she  used  to  sing  in  the  streets  so  reluc- 
tantly, now  came  joyously  from  her  lips. 

She  was  so  secure  in  her  happiness  that  she  sometimes 
doubted  if  she  should  ever  know  sorrow  again. 

One  day,  without  knowing  why,  her  heart  suddenly  be- 
came as  heavy  as  lead. 

She  thought  of  the  dream  when  the  goblin  shapes  had 
tortured  her  with  that  menacing  word,  and  the  letter  which 
came  from  her  mother,  though  she  had  supposed  that  the 
writer  was  her  mother’s  friend,  also  troubled  her.  It  was 
six  years  since  that  day,  but  it  caused  her  more  discomfort 
now  than  it  did  then. 

Sad  and  disturbed,  she  went  into  the  balcony  at  twilight. 

Little  Tessa  came  out  where  her  mother  was,  but  even 
her  childish  fingers  and  merry  prattle  could  not  altogether 
dispel  Nella’s  gloom. 

Tessa’s  eyelids  soon  became  heavy,  and  laying  her  head 
in  her  mother’s  lap  she  slept. 

Scarcely  was  the  child  asleep  when  Nella  heard  approach- 
ing footsteps  and  then  voices. 

It  was  the  Count  and  Fritz. 

They  came  near  the  window  opening  upon  the  balcony. 

They  were  speaking  of  Bianca. 

Nella  was  about  calling  to  them  when  her  husband  asked 
his  father  a question  which  nearly  froze  the  blood  in  her 
veins. 


THE  LILIES  OF  FLORENCE. 


63 


Are  you  sure  they  were  never  married  ? 

‘^Absolutely  sure,”  answered  the  Count. 

“ So  Nella’s  father  was  not  her  mother’s  husband  ?” 

‘‘  That  is  the  unfortunate  truth.  But  do  you  regret 
marrying  her  ? ” 

“ Regret  it  ? No  ! ” answered  Fritz  warmly  ; ‘‘nothing 
can  ever  make  me  regret  that.” 

“ I was  sure  of  it,”  said  the  Count  as  they  moved  away 
again.  “ She  must  never  know  it,  poor  child  ! ” 

“ Never  ! ” said  Fritz. 

They  were  gone. 

Nella  pressed  her  hands  against  her  head. 

“ Oh,  God  ! if  I could  only  die  ! ” she  cried,  in  her  un- 
bearable agony.  “ So  Lucrezia  deceived  me.  My  mother 
was  never  married,  and  I — what  a shameless  thing  I am  ! 
No  wonder  the  goblins  hissed  ‘ Bastard  ’ in  my  ears  ! ” 

She  kissed  the  sleeping  child  again  and  again  as  if  her 
heart  was  breaking.  * 

“ Good-by  ! ” she  said.  “ Good-by  ! ” 

Slowly  she  groped  her  way  through  the  dark  room  and 
along  the  corridor. 

At  the  outer  door  she  paused  for  a single  instant.  Then 
the  terrible  thought  came  again. 

“ A bastard  ! ” she  moaned.  “ A wife,  a mother,  and  a 
bastard  ! Oh,  God ! Let  me  die  ! ” 

She  passed  through  the  door  and  rushed  away  toward 
the  Arno. 


VI. 

IN  THE  GREEN  ROOM. 

Deep  shadows  and  dark  clouds  chased  the  twilight  over 
the  purple  hills.  When  night  had  shaken  out  the  folds  of 
her  sombre  mantle,  enshrouding  the  city,  save  where  the 
mighty  canopy  was  star-pierced,  there  came  a hush  in 
the  voices  in  the  streets  and  a heavier  odor  of  lilies  from 
the  meadows. 

Fritz,  standing  pensively  by  himself,  heard  a sound  of 
grief. 

It  was  Tessa. 

In  the  balcony,  half  awake,  she  had  missed  her  mother, 
and  was  sobbing  and  moaning. 

When  he  was  aroused  from  his  troubled  thoughts,  and 


64 


THE  LILIES  OF  FLORENCE. 


knew  what  the  noise  meant,  Fritz  hastened  to  the  weeping 
child. 

‘‘Where  is  mamma,  dear  ? ” he  asked. 

“ I don't  know.  I thought  she  was  kissing  me,  and  say- 
ing  ‘good-by,’  and  when  1 put  out  my  hand  she  was 
gone.” 

“You  were  only  dreaming,  Tessa,”  he  answered,  picking 
her  up  and  kissing  her.  “ We  will  go  and  find  mamma. 
Like  you,  she  may  be  sleeping  in  some  quiet  corner.” 

Little  he  thought  that  she  might  be  sleeping  in  the 
Arno  1 

The  palace  was  searched,  but  Nella  could  not  be  found. 

Fritz  was  more  disturbed  than  he  admitted.  He  could 
not  understand  why  his  wife  should  leave  the  palace  with- 
out saying  where  she  was  going. 

She  had  never  left  it  alone  before.  Still,  for  a brief 
while  he  said  nothing  about  his  uneasiness. 

Two  hours  passed,  and  sheiiad  not  returned. 

Then  an  alarm  was  given,  and  a careful  search  was  made 
for  Nella  throughout  Florence. 

It  availed  nothing. 

No  one  had  seen  her,  and  no  trace  or  clew  of  her  could 
be  discovered. 

A servant  living  near  the  Arno  had  been  sitting  at  her 
master’s  window  about  twilight.  She  saw  a feeble,  totter- 
ing woman  leap  from  the  Ponte  Vecchio  down  into  the 
water  below  ; but  Nella  was  not  feeble  and  tottering,  so 
no  one  thought  of  associating  her  with  the  suicide. 

For  three  days  the  search  was  continued,  and  then  all 
save  Fritz  gave  Nella  up  for  dead. 

He  was  steadfast  in  the  belief  that  she  still  lived,  and 
that  he  should  find  her. 

“ She  has  been  stolen,”  he  declared. 

“ By  whom  ? ” they  asked  him. 

“ I cannot  tell.  Still,  I am  sure  someone  has  stolen  her 
from  me  again.  Not  any  of  Taddeo’s  brood,  as  before, 
since  they  are  all  dead  or  in  prison.” 

The  Count  did  not  believe  it. 

“ Perhaps  it  is  Bianca’s  work  ! ” exclaimed  Fritz,  sud- 
denly. 

“ Nonsense  !”  cried  Count  Ahmberg.  “ Her  last  earthly 
hope  met  consummation  when  you  married  Nella.  She  is 
the  last  one  in  the  world  to  take  your  wife  away.” 

“ She  might  have  deceived  you — she  might  have  lied.” 

“Never  ! She  is  truth  itself.  Why  should  she  deceive 


THE  LILIES  OF  FLORENCE. 


me  ? What  possible  purpose  could  she  have  ? Why,  too, 
should  she  wish  to  destroy  her  daughter’s  happiness  ? ” 

“ She  may  have  done  it  to  wring  your  heart.  Her  pur- 
pose may  be  vengeance.  Whom  would  she  not  sacrifice 
for  that ! ” 

‘‘  Vengeance  ! For  what  ? ” 

“ For  the  injuries  you  say  you  once  did  her.” 

She  forgave  them  long  ago,”  said  the  Count,  softly. 

Fritz  snapped  his  fingers. 

I am  not  so  sure,”  he  said. 

Lucrezia,  eager  to  grasp  at  any  straw,  came  forward. 

“ Fritz  may  be  right,”  she  whispered  to  the  Count. 
“ Let  me  find  Bianca  and  tell  her  that  Nella  is  lost.” 

“ As  you  like,”  answered  the  distressed  nobleman.  ‘‘  Only 
she  must  know  it  already — all  Florence  does.” 

Go  ! ” commanded  Fritz,  whose  keen  ears  had  over- 
heard the  whispered  conference.  Go,  Lucrezia,  and  be 
quick,  too.”  » 

The  old  nurse  hurried  away  and  was  soon  at  Bianca’s 
door. 

When  the  servant  who  answered  Lucrezia’s  knock  at- 
tempted to  say  that  the  signora  was  not  in  Florence,  the 
blaze  in  the  old  woman’s  eyes  checked  the  falsehood  be- 
fore it  was  half  told. 

‘‘  Stop,  girl,  for  the  sake  of  your  soul,  and  for  the  sake 
of  what  is  still  more  precious  to  the  signora,  do  not  lie  to 
me.  Go  and  tell  your  mistress  that  old  Lucrezia  is  here 
in  search  of  Fritz  Ahmberg’s  wife,  who  is  mysteriously 
gone  from  her  home.” 

The  bewildered  servant  hurried  away,  and  presently  Bi- 
anca came. 

Is  this  a trick  to  find  me  out  ? ” she  asked,  nervously. 

Were  I your  equal  in  rank  I would  call  you  a fool ! ” 
exclaimed  Lucrezia,  scornfully. 

Bianca  was  deeply  distressed  when  she  knew  that  Nella 
was  gone.  A thousand  possibilities  entered  her  mind, 
only  to  be  dismissed  ^s  quickly  as  they  came. 

“ And  you  have  no  idea  as  to  what  has  befallen  her  ?” 

No,”  said  Lucrezia  ; ‘‘  else  I should  not  be  here  ques- 
tioning you.” 

Bianca  winced. 

Well,”  she  said  bitterly,  ‘‘whatever  happens  to  my  unfor- 
tunate daughter,  her  degradation  can  scarcely  be  increased.” 

“ What  do  you  mean  ? Is  it  such  degradation  to  have 
her  an  honest  man’s  wife  ? ” 

5 


66 


THE  LILIES  OF  FLORENCE, 


“ No  ; I did  not  mean  that.” 

I do  not  understand  you  then.  Do  you  really  mean 
anything  at  all  ? I doubt  if  you  do.” 

My  meaning  should  be  clear  enough  to  you,  since  you 
saw  that  awful  farce  performed,”  answered  Bianca,  angrily. 

“You  are  so  spiteful  that  one,  judging  from  your  voice 
and  manner,  would  think  I had  done  you  an  injury.” 

“ Oh,  no  ; not  in  the  least  ! ” cried  Bianca,  contemptu- 
ously. “It  is  no  injury  to  an  innocent  virgin  to  stand 
coldly  by  and  see  her  virtue  bartered  away  ! ” 

Lucrezia  stepped  slowly  forward  and  looked  earnestly 
into  Bianca's  face. 

“Tell  me  exactly  what  you  mean,”  she  said.  “ I am  be- 
ginning to  understand  that  which  I had  always  supposed 
was  wilfulness.” 

“ Wilfulness,  indeed  ! ” exclaimed  Bianca.  “ I owe  you 
no  good  will.  No  woman  is  likely  to  harbor  much  love 
for  a witness  to  her  infamy.  ^ 

“ Wily  did  you  not  speak  out  and  save  me,  that  awful 
day  ! Why  did  you  let  them  entrap  me  into  a mock  mar- 
riage and  become  the  mother  of  a bastard  daughter  ? 

“ You  told  me,  too,  that  the  vile  man  who  read  that 
empty  marriage  service  was  your  own  priest — your  father 
confessor  ! How  dare  you  accuse  me  of  wilfulness  ? 

“ If  I did  right  I lo  out d kill  you  ! ” 

Bianca  was  astounded  by  the  expression  that  suddenly 
came  upon  Lucrezia’s  face.  She  suffered  the  old  woman 
to  take  her  hands  in  silence. 

“ Poor  child,”  said  Lucrezia,  tenderly.  “ Poor,  poor 
child!  And  you  have  believed  this  thing  you  have  just 
told — this  lie — so  long  ? ” 

Bianca  nodded.  She  was  too  much  bewildered  and  ex- 
cited to  speak. 

It  seemed  to  her  that  she  would  die  before  Lucrezia 
could  say  more.  Yet,  try  as  she  would,  she  could  force  no 
sound  through  her  benumbed  lips  which  would  urge  the 
old  woman  to  hasten  her  words.  « 

“ Did  they  tell  you  that  you  were  not  a wife  ? ” asked 
Lucrezia,  as  soon  as  her  emotion  permitted  her  to  speak. 

“Yes,”  answered  Bianca,  shaking  off  the  lethargy  by  a 
powerful  effort. 

“ And  you  believed  it  ?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ They  lied  to  you.  The  priest  Avho  wedded  you  to  the 
prince  still  lives.  He  is  here  in  Florence.  You  shall  see 


l^HE  LILIES  OF  FLORENCE, 


67 


him  and  hear  confirmation  of  what  I have  said  from  his 
own  lips.  You  were  made  an  honorable  wife,  and  there  is 
no  stain  upon  either  you  or  your  daughter.” 

Bianca  kissed  Lucrezia  passionately  again  and  again. 
Then,  throwing  herself  into  the  old  woman’s  arms,  she 
wept  out  the  crushing  sorrow  which  had  burdened  and 
oppressed  her  heart  for  years. 

It  was  the  happiest  moment  of  her  life,  and  she  doubted 
if  any  bosom  had  ever  throbbed  with  such  genuine  joy  be- 
fore. 

The  murderer,  reprieved  on  the  scaffold,  the  recalled 
exile,  the  pardoned  prisoner,  each  feels  some  such  wild 
thrill  as  hers  ; but  the  parallel  is  far  from  close. 

“An  honest  wife,  and  a legitimate  daughter,”  murmured 
Bianca  between  her  joyous  sobs.  “No  sin,  no  stain,  no 
shame  ! Oh,  God,  I thank  thee  ! ” 

“ I must  return  to  Fritz  and  the  Count,”  said  Lucrezia 
when  Bianca  was  calmer. 

“ I will  go  with  you,”  said  Bianca.  “ Together  we  may 
be  able  to  guess  out  this  new  mystery.” 

Lucrezia,  old  as  she  was,  moved  so  swiftly  along  the 
streets  that  Bianca  could  scarcely  keep  pace  with  her. 

When  they  reached  the  palace,  Count  Ahmberg  clasped 
Bianca  in  his  arms  and  kissed  her. 

She  made  no  attempt  to  resist  him  now. 

“ How  glad  I am  you  came,  Bianca,”  he  said. 

“I  came  because  I could  come  in  honor.  Otherwise  I 
should  still  have  stayed  away.” 

“ What  do  you  mean  ?” 

“That  I am  an  honorable  wife  and  not  the  vile  thing  I 
thought  I was.” 

“ Vile  you  could  not  be,”  he  declared.  “ How  and  when 
did  you  find  this  out  ?” 

“To-day.  From  Lucrezia.” 

“And  you  have  known  this  all  along?”  he  demanded, 
of  the  old  nurse, 

“Yes.” 

An  angry  gleam  came  into  his  eyes,  such  as  she  used  to 
see  there  in  bygone  years. 

“Why,  then,  have  you  never  spoken  before  ?” 

The  sternness  of  his  voice  was  lost  upon  her. 

“Altro!”  she  said,  calmly,  “no  one  ever  asked  me. 
And  then — not  being  in  your  confidence — I never  knew  of 
this  doubt  until  to-day.” 

“ Forgive  me,  Lucrezia,”  he  answered,  with  a sigh. 


68 


THE  LILIES  OF  FLOREHCE. 


“Never  mind,”  said  Bianca,  with  glowing  eyes,  “we 
should  be  glad  that  w^e  knew  this  thing  at  all,  rather  than 
sorry  that  we  know  it  so  late.  But  let  us  talk  of  Nella 
now.  Who  saw  her  last  ? ” 

'‘I  did,”  replied  Lucrezia.  “ I saw  her  enter  the  balcony 
yonder  just  before  twilight.” 

“What  happened  after  that  ?” 

No  one  could  tell. 

“ Who  next  went  to  the  balcony  ? ” 

“ Fritz  ; he  heard  Tessa  crying  and  went  there  for  her,” 
said  Lucrezia. 

“You  are  mistaken,”  interposed  the  Count.  “ Fritz  and 
I stood  near  the  balcony  talking  when  the  twilight  was 
about  past.” 

“ Of  what  were  you  talking  ? ” asked  Bianca  in  a strange 
tone,  as  if  by  inspiration. 

‘‘About ” 

Count  Ahrnberg’s  face  suddenly  changed  color.  He  was 
pale  as  death,  and  his  lower  jaw  fell  and  refused  to  play. 

All  were  startled  and  terrified.  Suddenly  Fritz  also 
remembered  w’hat  that  conversation  near  the  balcony  had 
been  about,  and  with  a groan  he  covered  his  face  with  his 
hands. 

“My  God!  are  these  men  going  mad?”  exclaimed 
Bianca. 

“ I see  it  all  now,”  said  Fritz.  “ I see  it  all  now.  We  were 
talking  of  your  supposed  sham  marriage,  and  of  the  fact 
— as  we  supposed — of  her  illegitimate  birth.  She  heard  us. 
It  is  that  which  sent  her  away.” 

“ Yes,”  said  Bianca  ; “it  is  that.  She  is  either  dead  or 
else  she  has  gone  away  from  Florence.  Tessa  thought  she 
heard  Nella  saying  ‘good-by,'  and  the  child  was  right.” 

“She  must  be  found,”  cried  Fritz,  vehemently.  “She 
shall  be  found  ! ” 

Bianca  looked  at  him  admiringly. 

“ You  deserve  to  find  her,”  she  said.  “ You  are  so  brave, 
and  seem  to  love  her  so.” 

But  the  saying  was,  as  usual,  far  easier  than  the  doing. 
All  Italy  was  searched  witliout  finding  her. 

At  Rome  they  were  told  that  some  players  who  sailed 
for  France,  after  Nella  had  gone  a month,  had  a beautiful 
woman  with  them  who  answered  her  description. 

The  clew  was  slight.  Too  slight  to  follow,  so  the  officers 
said. 

But  to  love  nothing  is  slight.  The  woman  the  players 


THE  LILIES  OF  FLORENCE.  69 

took  away  might  or  might  not  be  Nella.  Fritz  deter- 
mined to  follow  it  and  find  out. 

Bianca  wanted  to  go  with  him,  and  would  not  be  dis- 
suaded. So  they  started  for  France  together. 

Count  Ahmberg  stayed  in  Florence  to  guard  little  Tessa. 
What  bitter,  inexorable  fate  might  not  snatch  her  away  if 
she  was  left  with  servants  ? 

The  Count  regarded  it  as  a hopeless  search.  In  fact,  so 
despondent  had  he  become  that  he  doubted  if  he  should 
ever  see  Bianca  and  Fritz  again.  He  parted  with  them 
as  one  parts  with  the  dying. 

Of  course  they  went  to  Paris  first.  Where  else,  if  she 
was  in  France,  would  they  be  so  likely  to  find  her? 

Day  after  day  and  night  after  night  they  sought  for  her 
among  the  cheap  theatres,  doubting  if  the  players  whom 
the  officials  in  Rome  had  described  would  be  found  else- 
where. 

Discouraged,  and  about  leaving  Paris,  Bianca  and  Fritz 
were  surprised  one  day  to  receive  a call  from  a chief  of  the 
geits  cLarmes, 

He  had  just  been  led  to  believe  that  a certain  great 
singer,  whose  wonderful  voice  was  the  marvel  and  delight 
of  all  Paris,  was  the  missing  Nella. 

Bianca  and  Fritz  listened  to  him  with  but  little  interest. 
So  7nany  clews  they  had  followed  only  to  have  them  end  in 
disappointment. 

Still,  they  accompanied  the  officer  to  the  opera  house 
that  night. 

When  the  curtain  was  rung  up  sure  enough  the  favorite 
was  Nella — but  how  changed.  Her  face  was  thin  and  sad, 
and  her  step  was  listless. 

She  sang  the  same  simple  Italian  ballads  which  used  to 
delight  the  Florentines,  and  Fritz  was  reminded  of  the 
morning  when,  awakened  from  sweet  dreams  of  her  as  she 
was  when  he  found  her  in  the  lilies,  he  had  first  heard  her 
marvellous  voice  in  song. 

Nearly  everyone  was  moved  to  tears,  there  was  such  a 
tender  pathos  to  her  singing. 

Fritz  and  Bianca  could  scarcely  restrain  themselves 
until  the  end  of  the  concert. 

Encore  followed  encore  until  the  hour  was  very  late. 
Nella  sang  on  in  the  same  pathetic  way,  and  never  once 
betrayed  emotion  until  a little  child  in  one  of  the  galleries 
called  out  : 

‘‘  Mamma ! ” 


70 


THE  LILIES  OF  FLORENCE. 


Nella  sprang  forward,  and  stood  so  near  the  footlights 
that  her  drapery  was  in  danger  of  fire. 

‘‘  Tessa  ! ” she  cried,  extending  her  hands.  Then,  re- 
membering where  she  was,  she  retreated  in  confusion. 

The  moment  the  curtain  was  down  for  the  last  time, 
Bianca,  Fritz,  and  the  officer  hurried  to  the  greenroom. 

Nella  was  informed  that  a lady  wished  to  speak  with  her. 

Fritz  and  the  officer  stood  in  a little  private  hallway 
leading  from  the  greenroom  t(^  the  front  of  the  opera 
house,  leaving  Bianca  alone. 

Supposing  that  she  had,  as  usual,  been  summoned  to 
gratify  someone's  idle  curiosity,  Nella  did  not  raise  her 
eyes  when  she  entered  the  greenroom. 

What  can  I do  for  you,  madame  ? " she  asked,  carelessly. 

‘‘You  can  return  with  me  to  Florence,”  answ^ered 
Bianca,  as  she  caught  Nella  in  her  arms.  “Dear,  I am 
your  mother.  Since  you  went  away,  I have  found  that  I 
was  lawfully  married  ; so  there  is  no  stain  upon  us,  after 
all.” 

A moment  later,  mother  and  daughter  were  weeping  in 
each  other's  arms. 

Fritz  joined  them,  in  answer  to  a call  from  Bianca,  and 
the  officer,  seeing  that  everything  seemed  going  all  right, 
stole  quietly  aw^ay. 

There  was  never  a happier  reunion  in  a greenroom,  and 
never  did  a greenroom  seem  a holier  place. 

“ What  made  you  go  away,  dear  ? ” asked  Bianca. 

Nella  hung  her  head,  and  the  deep  rich  color  came  into 
her  cheeks. 

“ Because  I thought  I was  a bastard.  I had  a terrible 
dream  once,  in  which  that  awful  word  was  hissed  at  me  by 
demons,  but  I forgot  both  tlie  dream  and  the  word  until  f 
heard  Fritz  and  his  father  say  that  you  were  never  mar- 
ried. 

“ Then  I ran  awmy  and  tried  to  drown  myself  in  the 
Arno. 

“ Some  players  rescued  me  and  kept  me  safely  hidden 
while  you  were  searching  for  me.  They  brought  me  to 
Paris,  and  one  of  the  great  managers  heard  me  sing,  liked 
my  voice,  and  began  these  concerts. 

“It  w^as  a respectable  way  of  earning  money,  so  I 
determined  to  follow  it  until  I became  rich.  Then  I was 
going  to  try  to  stifle  my  shame  and  sorrow  by  travelling. 

“ But  now,  thank  God,  the  shame  and  sorrow  are  both 
gone,  and  I can  return  in  purity  to  my  husband.” 


THE  LILIES  OF  FLORENCE, 


71 


^‘Now/'  said  Bianca,  ‘‘I  must  tell  you  about  myself. 
When  I was  a girl  I had  two  very  persistent  lovers.  One 
was  Count  Ahmberg,  and  the  other  was  a German  prince. 
I loved  the  Count  and  iiated  the  Prince,  who  was  violent 
and  unprincipled. 

‘‘It  was  my  nature  to  be  tantalizing,  and  I used  to  vex 
the  Count  by  feigning  to  love  the  Prince.  One  day  he 
took  me  too  literally,  and  upbraided  me  so  bitterly  that  I 
became  angry,  and  declared  that  I was  going  to  wed  the 
Prince  at  once. 

“ Count  Ahmberg  left  me  in  a furious  rage,  and  a few 
days  afterward  he  married  a delicate,  sensitive  Italian  girl 
for  spite.  She  was  so  frail  and  tender,  and  he  so  harsh 
and  unfeeling,  that  in  a year  she  died — a few  days  after 
you  were  born,  Fritz. 

“ I was  piqued  by  the  Count’s  marriage,  and  almost 
immediately  became  the  wife  of  the  Prince.  We  were 
married  privately,  so  that  the  Count  might  not  find  it 
out  until  I could  blight  his  last  hope  by  telling  him  my- 
self. 

“ A terrible  life  I lived  with  my  German  husband.  His 
manner  was  repulsive,  and  he  was  incapable  of  loving 
any  one. 

“ One  day  he  came  to  me  and  said  that  ours  was  only  a 
mock  marriage,  and  that  he  had  a wife  living  in  Germany 
to  whom  he  was  going. 

“ He  left  me,  and  I was  wild  with  grief  and  despair.  To 
complete  my  misery  you,  Nelia,  were  born  a month  after 
his  departure.  Then  I was  entirely  broken  down,  and  for 
many  weeks  was  a raving  maniac.  When  my  reason  re- 
turned they  told  me  that  my  babe  was  dead. 

“I  never  once  doubted  that,  or  that  mine  was  a mock- 
marriage,  and  so  made  no  effort  to  verify  what  my  hus- 
band had  said.  He  is  dead  now,  and  I forgive  him.  His 
punishment  for  deserting  me  was  terrible — but  that  must 
greet  your  ears  from  other  lips.” 

And  then  she  paused  and  shuddered. 

Fritz  wondered  if  the  punishment  of  the  Prince  was  not 
the  fearful  secret  of  his  father’s  which  had  been  so  zealous- 
ly guarded. 

“ And  so  you  are  sure  that  you  were  really  married  ? ” 
asked  Nelia. 

“Yes,  dear.  There  is  no  doubt.  Lucrezia  witnessed 
my  marriage,  and  I have  seen  the  record,  and  talked 
about  it  with  the  priest  who  read  the  service.” 


72 


THE  LILIES  OF  FLORENCE. 


How  much  sorrow  might  have  been  saved  had  we  only 
known  before,’'  said  Nella. 

“ And  how  much  joy  we  should  have  missed  but  for  thus 
finding  you  here,”  added  Fritz,  clasping  his  wife  to  his 
heart  and  kissing  her. 

‘‘Yes,”  said  Bianca,  “it  must  be  better  so.  God  is 
wiser  than  we  are.” 

As  they  were  about  leaving  the  greenroom  the  officer 
returned,  and  with  him  was  one  of  Count  Ahmberg’s 
servants. 

“ I bring  you  news  from  home,”  said  the  servant,  sadly. 

“ Bad  news?”  asked  Nella. 

“Yes.” 

“ Of  whom  ? ” 

“ Of  Tessa.” 

“ Oh  ! God  ! she  is  dead  ! ” cried  Nella,  as  she  fell  back 
into  her  mother’s  arms. 

Something  in  the  color  of  her  face  startled  the  officer. 
Stepping  forward  he  placed  his  hand  over  Nella’s  heart. 

“ It  has  ceased  beating,”  he  said,  as  he  stepped  aside. 


VII. 

AMONG  THE  LILIES. 

When  Fritz  and  Bianca  were  gone  from  Florence,  Count 
Ahmberg  was  immediately  environed  with  the  most  in- 
comprehensible dejection  and  melancholy. 

Waking  or  sleeping,  doubts  and  despair  filled  all  his 
thoughts. 

This  depression  was  not  caused  by  the  loss  of  Nella, 
though  that  had  much  to  do  with  it.  Neither  was  he  al- 
together disheartened  by  the  absence  of  his  son  and  the 
noble  Bianca. 

There  was  overhanging  him,  and  overshadowing  his 
every  moment,  a sense  of  impending  disaster  for  himself — • 
something,  too,  which  would  be  w’orse  than  death. 

He  had  no  doubt  of  the  safe  return  of  Fritz  and  Bianca, 
and  he  even  believed  that  Nella  would  also  come  back, 
but  all  this  under  such  sorrowful  circumstances  ! 

Hourly  the  impression  became  stronger  that  he  would  . 
never  again  meet  his  dear  ones  as  they  had  all  been  when)|j 


THE  LILIES  OF  FJ.0 FENCE, 


73 


they  parted.  Either  they  or  he  would  in  some  sad  way  be 
changed. 

Tessa  would  go  to  him  and  run  her  pretty  little  fingers 
playfully  through  his  beard,  but  even  the  touch  of  baby 
hands  failed  to  exercise  the  disturbing  influences. 

She  talked  to  him,  as  had  so  long  been  her  wont,  and  she 
could  not  understand  why  he  met  her  prattling  and  car- 
esses so  strangely. 

Sometimes  the  sadness  in  his  voice  touched  her  heart, 
and  sent  big  tears  of  pity  into  her  tender  eyes.  But  he  did 
not  see  them. 

Do  what  she  would  she  could  not  win  a smile  from  him. 

He  and  Lucrezia  were  all  there  was  left  to  the  sensitive 
child  now,  and  the  faithful  nurse  was  too  old  to  see  the 
danger  with  which  the  Count’s  moods  threatened  the  little 
creature. 

So  Tessa  in  a few  days  was  left  to  herself. 

Everyone  seemed  to  have  either  gone  away  or  forgotten 
her.  She  wondered  where  her  mamma  was,  and  if  her 
papa  had  also  forsaken  her. 

Sometimes  she  would  go  to  some  window  which  over- 
looked the  streets,  and  call  softly  to  the  absent  ones. 

There  was  no  answer  to  the  plaintive  little  voice,  and 
no  one  said  a word  to  her  of  those  whom  she  so  sadly 
missed. 

Still  she  made  no  complaint,  but  locked  all  her  sorrow 
up  in  her  brave  little  bosom. 

The  Count  and  Lucrezia  were  so  absorbed  in  their  own 
gloomy  thoughts  that  Tessa  had  no  place  in  their  minds. 

They  thought  her  only  a child,  and  so  sorrow-proof. 

Only  a child  is  too  often  said  I More  characters  are 
molded  before  than  after  a child’s  sixth  birthday. 

And  though  this  little  one’s  heart  was  breaking  she  was 
suffering  unobserved — alone — without  a word  of  sympathy. 

She  grew  weaker  and  paler  until  she  could  no  longer 
even  walk  about  the  old  palace  which  for  six  merry  years 
had  daily  echoed  the  sound  of  her  cheery  voice  and  the 
swift  patter  of  her  dancing  feet. 

It  was  not  until  then  that  she  received  the  solicitude  of 
the  saddened  Count  and  the  imbittered  nurse. 

When  the  physicians  were  called,  and  they  had  looked 
at  the  little  wasted  form,  and  had  listened  to  the  feeble 
breathing,  they  shook  their  heads. 

You  have  waited  too  long,  ” said  one  of  them.  ‘‘  Med- 
ical skill  can  do  nothing  for  her.  ” 


74 


TFTE  LILIES  OF  FLORENCE, 


“Can  nothing  be  done  for  her?”  cried  the  agonized 
Count. 

“ Nothing — except  heaven  interferes.  She  is  beyond 
the  reach  of  man.  Where  is  her  mother  ?” 

“ In — in  France,  I think.  ” 

“Send  for  her  at  once.  If  she  comes  quickly  the  child 
may  rally.  She  can  be  saved  in  no  other  way.  ” 

“ But  we  are  uncertain  where  her  mother  is.  Can  you 
think  of  nothing  else  ? ” 

“No.  The  child  is  dying  of  grief,  and  she  cannot  live 
a month.  ” 

“ Of  grief  ? ” cried  the  Count,  trying  to  smile  away  the 
pain  which  the  doctor’s  words  caused  him.  “ Do  you  be- 
lieve that  people  ever  die  of  broken  hearts  ?” 

The  doctor  pointed  to  Tessa. 

“ Wait  and  see,  ” he  said. 

A messenger  was  hurried  away  to  Paris  in  pursuit  of 
Fritz. 

Everything  which  loving  and  sorrowing  hearts  could 
devise  was  done  to  arouse  Tessa,  but  everything  failed. 
They  had,  indeed,  waited  too  long. 

Gradually  she  grew  weaker,  and  she  no  longer  smiled 
when  they  told  her  that  her  mother  was  coming  back.  All 
words  now  seemed  to  be  the  same  to  her.  It  was  impos- 
sible to  interest  her  in  life.  Her  vitality,  never  great,  was 
now  near  exhaustion.  Death  was  only  a matter  of  days, 
perhaps  of  hours. 

Count  Ahmberg  was  constantly  beside  her. 

Two  prayers  were  ever  upon  his  lips.  One  was  that 
Nella  might  be  found,  and  the  other  was  that  she  and 
Fritz  might  come  while  Tessa  was  still  there. 

Sorrow  was  crushing  the  Count. 

His  great  strong  life,  like  Tessa’s,  was  running  in  feeble 
currents. 

Lucrezia  trembled  to  see  that  he,  too,  was  failing. 

“He  will  not  long  survive  the  child,”  she  muttered. 
“ He  has  never  rallied  since  his  awful  illness.  If  they  do 
not  come  quickly,  Fritz  and  Nella  will  have  more  than  one 
cause  for  grief.” 

Tessa’s  hands  and  arms  were  transparent  and  waxen. 
Her  lips  were  like  marble.  The  blood  seemed  to  have  left 
her  veins.  All  the  while  she  lay  quiet  and  motionless. 

As  the  physicians  came  in,  from  time  to  time,  they 
looked  at  her  helplessly  and  wondered  how  she  lived. 

It  was  several  days  since  she  had  taken  nourishment ; 


THE  LILIES  OF  FLORE  MCE, 


75 


she  could  no  longer  move  her  hands  without  assistance, 
and  the  color  had  nearly  faded  out  of  her  once  dark  eyes. 

Still,  she  lived. 

One  day  a breeze  brought  an  odor  of  lilies  through 
the  windows  from  the  garden. 

It  brought  more  than  the  odor  to  the  Count.  The  lilies 
were  strangely  interwoven  with  all  their  lives.  Might  not 
a sight  of  them  interest  the  dying  child  ? Possibly  she 
would  rally  ! 

Filled  with  this  thought,  Count  Ahmberg  hurried  into 
the  garden  and  soon  returned  with  a handful  of  the  rare- 
est  lilies  he  could  find. 

‘‘  See,  Tessa,”  he  said,  softly,  as  he  held  them  before  her. 

Once  again,  and  for  the  last  time  on  earth,  the  color 
came  back  into  her  eyes.  A dainty  tinge  of  pink  stained 
her  cheeks,  and  she  smiled — faintly,  but  still  she  smiled. 

Parting  the  lilies,  he  laid  some  of  them  into  one  of  her 
hands,  and  held  the  others  where  she  could  smell  them. 

As  the  weak  fingers  closed  over  the  delicate  flowers,  her 
lips  moved. 

Mamma  loved  them  so,”  she  said. 

She  had  not  spoken  before  in  a long  while,  and  now  her 
voice  seemed  to  have  strangely  regained  all  of  its  old 
strength. 

Her  breath  was  stronger,  and  the  color  in  her  cheeks 
deepened. 

“A  miracle  ! ” murmured  the  Count. 

But  he  was  mistaken. 

He  had  sapped  the  dear  little  life  he  was  so  eager  to 
save. 

Scarcely  had  she  spoken  when  there  came  a choking 
noise  from  her  throat. 

A few  bright  drops  appeared  upon  her  lips,  and  then  a 
feeble  little  stream  trickled  down  upon  her  motionless 
bosom. 

It  was  blood  ! 

She  had  exhausted  the  little  remnant  of  her  life  in  those 
four  sad  words. 

Swifter  than  lightning  did  her  face  change.  The  Count 
had  fought  upon  many  a battle-field,  but  never  before 
had  he  seen  the  flush  of  life  so  quickly  changed  into  the 
pallor  of  death. 

With  the  lilies  still  in  her  hands,  Tessa  lay  dead. 

From  one  to  another  of  the  little  group  the  Count’s  hor- 
rified eyes  wandered. 


76 


THE  LILIES  OF  FLORENCE, 


‘‘This  is  the  end  of  all,’'  said  Lucrezia,  through  her 
teeth. 

The  Count  heard  her  and  stepped  quickly  toward  her, 

“No,  not  of  all,”  he  answered.  “Only  the  end  of  my  curse. 
It  has  ended  because  it  can  go  no  further.  Now  they  are 
all  dead.  I have  killed  them  all — the  Prince,  my  gentle 
wife,  Nella,  Bianca,  Fritz  and  Tessa.  Tessa — the  only  one 
there  was  left  me  ! — even  she  has  gone.  I tried  to  give 
her  life,  and  I gave  her  death.  Little  did  I dream  when, 
years  ago,  I spoke  that  awful  curse  that  its  fulfilment 
would  be  so  dreadfully  complete,  and  that  the  venom  I 
hurled  at  others  would  poison  my  own  heart  in  the  end. 
So  am  I punished,  Lucrezia.  Ah,  Lucrezia,  I believe  in 
fate.  This  is  fate  1 ” 

The  doctors  stood  aghast. 

Lucrezia  touched  Count  Ahmberg’s  arm. 

“ You  are  betraying  yourself  to  these  people,”  she  said. 

“ Betraying  myself  ? What  does  it  matter  ? They  can 
only  kill  me  at  most,  and  I would  thank  them  for  that.” 

“ You  must  be  silent,”  commanded  Lucrezia. 

“ No,”  he  exclaimed,  pushing  her  aside  ; “ I must  speak  ! 
Men,  servants,  ye  dead  and  ye  living  ones,  whom  I see  and 
feel  about  me,  listen  ; I shall  speak  ! 

“When  I was  a wayward,  stubborn  youth  I met  and  loved 
a noble  woman.  One  day,  infuriated  at  something  she  had 
said,  I rushed  away  from  her,  and  swore  that  I would  never 
set  eyes  upon  her  again.  To  wrench  her  heart,  and  kill  her 
if  possible,  I married  another  woman,  a frail,  sensitive 
creature,  whom  my  cruelty  sent  to  her  grave  in  a year. 

“ Soon  afterward  I sought  Bianca,  the  woman  whom  I 
had  first  loved.  But  she,  also  defiant,  had  wedded  my 
bitterest  enemy. 

“ Then  I cursed  her  and  her  husband,  and  all  the  fruit 
which  might  come  of  that  ill-sorted  marriage.  I went  away 
leaving  her  in  a swoon. 

“Years  afterward  her  villainous  husband  declared  that 
she  was  not  his  wife,  but  only  his  wanton,  and  that  they 
were  only  united  by  a mock  marriage. 

“ This  he  said  publicly,  and  I branded  him  as  a liar.  We 
arranged  upon  the  most  horrible  duel  ever  fought.  Dice 
were  to  be  thrown,  and  the  one  who  threw  the  highest  was 
to  cut  out  the  other’s  tongue.  He  lost,  and,  with  a 
dagger  which  in  my  childhood  my  mother  gave  me,  I cut 
out  his  tongue  and  fed  it  to  a dog  ! 

“ But  my  hatred  did  not  end  there.  A year  later  we 


THE  LILIES  OF  FLORENCE. 


77 


met  on  a battle  field,  in  rival  armies.  Before  the  fight 
began  I saw  him,  and  charging  down  upon  him,  with  my 
horse,  broke  off  my  sword  in  his  defenceless  heart.  Then, 
to  escape  death,  I fled  from  Germany. 

Bianca  gave  birth  to  a daughter  soon  after  her  hus- 
band abandoned  her,  and  this  daughter  was  stolen  away 
while  Bianca  lay  delirious  and  almost  dying.  Who  did 
this  has  never  been  found  out,  but  presumably  the  villain 
whom  Bianca  called  husband  was  instrumental  in  kidnap- 
ping the  child.  Whoever  took  it,  lost  it  a year  afterward 
on  the  banks  of  the  Arno,  where  my  family  found  it. 
When  I saw  this  child  the  old  hatred  came  back  into  my 
heart,  and  I tried  to  drown  her.  She  was  rescued  by  beg- 
gars, and  made  to.  sing  in  the  streets  for  bread.  My  son 
found  her  and  she  afterward  became  his  wife. 

Three  months  ago  he  questioned  me  concerning  her 
parentage,  and  I told  him,  truly,  as  I then  believed,  that 
her  mother  was  never  married. 

‘‘Poor  Nella  overheard  me,  and,  grief-stricken,  she  fled 
from  the  home  where  we  all  so  dearly  loved  her. 

“ Her  husband  and  mother  are  seeking  her  now.  Brood- 
ing over  them,  I neglected  this  sweet  babe,  until  grief  and 
loneliness  killed  her.” 

For  several  minutes  he  walked  slowly  up  and  down  the 
room  in  silence,  then  a fierce  light  came  into  his  eyes,  and 
he  glared  savagely  at  those  who  were  watching  him. 

Why  do  you  wait  ? ” he  shouted.  “ Why  do  you  not 
kill  me — do  you  think  I will  resist  ? Ah,  no ! I want 
death — I covet  it!  Do  not  refuse  me.  Grant  me  this 
service  ; it  is  the  only  one  humanity  can  do  me.  Come  ! 
Strike  quickly  ! Is  there  not  etiough  cause  ? See  how 
red  with  blood  my  hands  are.  See  how  many  are  crying 
out  for  vengeance-  Why  are  you  so  deaf  to  these  awful 
voices  ? Kill  me  as  I killed  the  Prince,  my  wife,  Nella, 
Bianca,  my  son,  and  Tessa.  Do  you  see  the  bright  blood 
on  her  little  bosom  ? I did  that ! I killed  her ! Oh ! 
Why  is  the  hand  of  vengeance  so  slow — why  is  it  so  long 
uplifted  ? Oh,  God,  why  do  you  not  strike  me  down  ? 
The  curse — the  curse  has  even  come  upon  me,  and  I can- 
not die.  I shall  always  live  and  see  the  fulfilment  of  that 
curse  go  on.  Lucrezia,  you  are  right  ; I believe  in  fate 
now,  for  this  is  fate  ! Ha  ! ha  ! ha  ! This  is  fate  ! ” 

And  then  he  settled  in  a shapeless  heap  upon  the  floor, 
as  limp  as  a wet  cloth. 

“ Is  he  dead  ?”  asked  Lucrezia,  huskily. 


78 


THE  LILIES  OF  FLORENCE. 


“ He  is  worse  than  dead/'  said  one  of  the  physicians 
after  they  picked  him  up.  His  mind  is  lost  forever.  He 
is  an  idiot — a hopeless  imbecile." 

Lucrczia  wrung  her  hands. 

Her  heart,  too,  was  nearly  broken,  but  the  iron  will 
which  had  sustained  her  so  many  times  did  her  excellent 
service  now. 

Count  Ahmberg  glanced  around  the  room  with  a sleepy 
expression  in  his  eyes. 

The  corners  of  his  once  firm  mouth  were  already  re- 
laxed, and  it  was  easy  to  determine  what  had  befallen  him. 

Lucrezia  stepped  in  front  of  the  chair  in  which  the  phy- 
sicians had  placed  him,  and  gazed  at  him  sadly. 

‘‘Do  you  know  me  ?"  she  asked, 

“Yes." 

“ Who  am  I ?" 

“ Lucrezia.” 

“ Do  you  know  these  persons  in  the  room — these  men 
and  women  ? ” 

He  looked  at  the  doctors  and  at  the  servants,  but  no 
sign  of  recognition — such  as  she  had  hoped  for — came 
upon  his  face. 

“ I cannot  tell,”  he  answered,  hesitatingly.  “ I think  I 
may  have  seen  them.” 

“Where  is  Bianca?”  she  asked,  hoping  to  arouse  him 
in  that  way. 

“ I do  not  know  who  you  mean,”  he  answered,  after  a 
moment's  silence. 

“And  have  you  also  forgotten  Fritz,  your  son  ?” 

“ I do  not  remember  the  name.” 

“It  is  a hopeless  case,”  interposed  one  of  the  physi- 
cians- 

Lucrezia  motioned  him  to  be  silent.  Then  pointing  to 
the  dead  child,  she  continued : 

“ Who  is  that  ? ” 

His  face  brightened  a little.  He  knew  the  child  in- 
stantly. 

“ It  is  Tessa,”  he  said,  as  he  arose  and  stepped  toward 
hei*.  Placing  a finger  upon  his  lips,  he  looked  about  him 
and  shook  his  head. 

“ Hush,”  he  said  ; “she  is  sleeping.  She  has  been  very 
tired  for  a long  time,  and  so  you  must  not  awaken  her. 
See  the  white  lilies  in  her  pretty  hand.  Here  are  others 
on  the  floor.  Who  could  have  taken  them  from  her  ? 
Who  would  treat  a sleeping  child  like  that  ?” 


THE  LILIES  OF  FLORENCE. 


79 


Then  he  picked  up  the  lilies  which  he  had  dropped 
when  the  horror  of  her  death  overcame  him,  and  reached 
forward  to  put  them  in  her  other  hand. 

Suddenly  he  drew  back. 

“ No  ; I will  not  do  that.  She  might  awaken.  I will 
place  them  on  her  bosom  where  she  will  see  them  when 
she  opens  her  eyes.'’ 

Dear  heart ! She  had  already  opened  them — in  para- 
dise ! ■ 

The  physicians  called  Lucrezia  aside. 

‘‘You  have  touched  a good  chord,”  one  of  them  said  to 
her.  “ His  case  is  very  singular.  He  can  only  remember 
those  whom  he  sees.  The  past  is,  plainly  enough,  com- 
pletely lost  to  him.  When  the  son  and  the  signora  return 
he  may  be  able  to  shake  off  a portion  of  this  feebleness. 
If  he  recognizes  them,  there  is  slight  ground  for  hope  ; 
though  it  is  impossible  for  him  to  recover,  he  may  still 
become  much  better  than  he  is.  Of  course  his  knowing 
you  and  the  dead  child  may  have  been  purely  accidental, 
though  that  is  hard  to  believe.  We  can  only  hope  that 
the  others  may  do  him  some  good  which  we  cannot  fore- 
see. One  in  his  condition  is  entirely  without  our  grasp. 
Physic  can  only  heal  and  cleanse  the  body,  not  the  mind.” 

“ But,”  said  Lucrezia,  when  he  was  so  near  death  several 
years  ago,  you  drugged  him  and  saved  his  reason.  Why 
can  you  not  do  the  same  now  ?” 

“ Because  his  mind  was  only  under  a cloud  then.  Now 
it  is  completely  lost.” 

“ Are  you  sure  that  the  experiment  which  was  so  suc- 
cessful then  would  fail  now?”  persisted  Lucrezia. 

“We  are  certain  of  nothing.  The  conditions  vary  so 
much  that  success  could  scarcely  be  expected  from  the 
same  experiment.  Still,  he  would  not  be  injured  if  we 
tried  it  and  failed.  We  will  talk  it  over  presently,  and  if 
it  seems  feasible  we  will  attempt  what  you  suggest.  Our 
course,  though,  would  be  plainer  and  simpler  if  we  knew 
whether  he  would  recognize  anyone  with  whom  he  had 
been  intimate  before  this  overthrow.” 

The  Count  was  standing  near  Tessa,  as  if  guarding  her. 

Lucrezia  longed  for,  yet  dreaded,  the  return  of  Bianca 
and  Fritz. 

Their  coming  might,  to  some  extent,  restore  the  Count’s 
reason  ; yet  what  a terrible  shock  for  them  would  the  death 
of  Tessa  be  ! 

The  old  nurse  thought  Providence  most  unkind  to  let  her 


So 


THE  LILIES  OF  FLORENCE. 


live  SO  long  when  so  many  of  her  dear  ones  were  called  into 
another  life.  If  God  had  only  taken  her  and  spared  Tessa, 
she  thought ; or  if  he  had  only  blighted  her  reason  and 
saved  the  Count's.  And  then  the  tears  ran  down  her  old 
wrinkled  cheeks  when  she  realized  how  vain  and  useless 
her  regrets  were. 

She  walked  across  the  room  and  stood  by  the  Count's 
side. 

* Hush,"  he  whispered  ; do  not  disturb  Tessa." 

‘‘Will  you  not  go  and  sit  down  again  in  the  chair?" 
she  asked. 

“ Not  so  loud  ; not  so  loud,"  he  whispered.  “When  she 
is  rested  I will  sit  down.  If  I go  now  someone  will  waken 
her." 

“ You  sit  down,  and  I will  stand  here  and  watch." 

“ No  ; you  are  not  so  strong  as  I.  You  see,  I could 
drive  them  away  if  they  came  for  her." 

His  face  became  grave,  the  corners  of  his  mouth 
twitched,  and  dulness  came  into  his  eyes.  He  brushed 
his  face  with  his  hands,  and  then  stared  at  her  vacantly. 

“ Hush  ! " he  repeated,  after  a little  while.  “ Be  silent, 
so  that  she  can  sleep." 

One  of  the  doctors  approached  Lucrezia. 

“ It  is  best  to  humor  him,"  he  whispered.  “ Come  away. 
Do  not  attempt  to  oppose  him  unless  he  gets  violent,  and 
I apprehend  no  danger  in  that  direction.  Some  of  us  will 
stay  here  so  that  we  can  observe  all  the  phenomena  of  the 
case." 

Tessa  had  died  a little  before  noon,  and  when  twilight 
came  the  Count  was  still  by  her  bedside,  guarding  her 
dead  body. 

Early  in  the  evening  there  was  a noise  at  the  outer 
door. 

Then  a servant  came  in  and  whispered  something  into 
Lucrezia's  ear. 

The  old  woman  motioned  one  of  the  doctors  to  follow 
her,  and  hurried  out  of  the  chamber. 

In  the  corridor  she  was  met  by  Bianca,  Nella,  and  Fritz.  . 

“ Am  I in  time  ? " gasped  Nella,  as  she  clutched  Lucrezi  a 
by  the  arm. 

“ You  are  too  late,"  sobbed  the  nurse.  . 

“Oh,  Tessa!  Oh,  my  baby!"  wailed  Nella.  Then  shG 
buried  her  face  in  her  husband’s  bosom  and  wept.  j 

The  physician  explained  the  Count’s  condition,  and  saiM 
that  he  and  his  medical  associates  had  been  holding  a lorJg 


THE  LILIES  OF  FLORENCE. 


8i 


consultation,  and  that  they  would  try  an  experiment  the 
next  day,  which  they  had  many  reasons  for  believing 
would  benefit  the  Count. 

When  Fritz  entered  the  silent  chamber,  and  saw  his  father 
guarding  the  dead  child,  he  instantly  gave  up  all  hope. 

‘‘There  is  no  use  hoping/’  he  murmured,  sadly. 

“Then,”  said  Bianca,  “ I earnestly  pray  that  his  sad  life 
may  come  to  a speedy  close.” 

“Amen  !”  said  Fritz  and  Nella. 

The  Count  knew  them  and  called  them  by  their  names, 
but  he  evinced  no  emotion  except  the  fear  that  they  might 
awaken  Tessa. 

He  could  not  be  induced  to  leave  the  dead  child,  nor 
could  he  comprehend  any  conversation  which  was  not  cen- 
tred upon  her. 

“What  have  we  left?”  asked  Nella,  in  despair. 

“You  have  each  other,”  answered  Bianca,  quickly.  “Do 
not  forget  that.” 

Again  Nella  wept,  and  after  that  she  was  calmer. 

She  and  Fritz  were  standing  by  a window  which  over- 
looked the  garden. 

The  moon  was  full  and  everything  out  of  doors  was 
bright  and  peaceful.  It  contrasted  strangely  with  the 
emotion  in  their  hearts. 

“ How  near  allied  pain  and  joy  always  are,”  said  Nella. 
“We  have  just  come  back  to  the  home  where  we  were  so 
happy  for  so  many  years,  and  are  now  secure  in  knowing 
that  nothing  can  again  disturb  our  love.  And  yet,  though 
all  the  old  doubts  and  perplexities  are  banished  forever, 
how  great  a sorrow  has  come  upon  us.” 

Fritz  stooped  and  kissed  her.  * 

“ Yes,  dear,”  he  answered  ; “ it  is  always  so.  Love’s 
pathway  is  strewed  deeper  with  thorns  than  with  roses  ; 
but,  though  our  faltering  feet  are  torn  as  we  journey  on, 
we  know  that  none  have  found  the  way  less  briery.  If  we 
but ” 

“ She  wakes  ! Tessa  wakes  ! ” cried  the  Count,  suddenly. 

All  were  startled,  expecting  to  see  a miracle. 

They  rushed  forward,  but  the  dead  child  still  lay  like  a 
motionless  piece  of  wax. 

It  was  only  an  hallucination  of  the  stricken  nobleman’s 
disordered  brain. 

“Listen,”  he  said,  softly,  “she  is  speaking.  She  is 
whispering.  Do  you  not  hear  her  ? She  wants  to  go  to 
the  garden  and  lie  among  the  lilies.” 

6 


82 


THE  LILIES  OF  FLORENCE. 


He  picked  her  lifeless  body  up  tenderly  and  started 
toward  the  door. 

“Come/'  he  said,  to  the  others,  “go  with  us.  We  may 
want  you.” 

“ Do  not  oppose  him,”  said  one  of  the  physicians. 
“Follow,  and  see  what  comes  of  this  strange  fancy.” 

The  Count  carried  the  dead  child  along  the  corridor  and 
out  into  the  garden. 

Breathlessly  the  others  watched  him. 

At  the  extremity  of  the  long  garden  was  a large  bed  of 
white  lilies.  The  odor  which  they  exhaled  was  so  rich 
and  powerful  that  it  was  almost  sickening. 

In  the  centre  of  this  odorous  bed  Count  Ahmberg  laid 
the  lifeless  body  of  Tessa. 

Her  face  and  arms  seemed  whiter  than  the  lilies. 

The  full  moon  bathed  the  strange  group  in  its  strong 
light,  but  the  silent  watchers  who  bent  their  grave  faces 
toward  the  Count  made  it  seem  eldritch  and  ghoulish. 

Handful  after  handful  of  lilies  did  the  Count  pluck 
and  strew  around  the  dead  child. 

“ How  happy  she  is,”  he  murmured.  See  how  sweetly 
she  smiles.  She  loves  the  lilies  ! I will  cover  her  with 
them,  all  but  her  dear  face.” 

And  so  he  did. 

“ Tessa,”  he  cried,  after  regarding  her  curiously  for  sev- 
eral moments.  “Tessa,  jump  up,  dear,  and  shake  the  lil- 
ies off.  ril  cover  you  with  them  again.  I’ll  cover  you 
again.” 

Then  he  looked  at  the  group  who  surrounded  him. 

Nella  was  in  Fritz’s  arms,  and  Bianca  and  old  Lucrezia 
were  clinging  to  each  other. 

Near  at  hand  stood  the  three  doctors  and  the  servants. 

All  were  weeping. 

The  Count  pressed  his  hands  to  his  forehead,  as  if  try- 
ing to  understand  what  it  all  meant. 

“Is  there  any  hope;”  asked  Fritz.  “For  God’s  sake 
speak  ? ” 

The  physicians  shook  their  heads  in  silence. 

Then  Bianca,  completely  broken  down,  began  sobbing 
hysterically. 

“ Hush,”  snid  the  Count,  as  he  knelt  by  the  lifeless 
Tessa.  “ Hush  ! she  is  sleeping  again.” 

Fie  moved  the  lilies  which  he  had  placed  upon  her  bos- 
om, and  got  some  of  the  blood  upon  one  of  his  hands. 

“Blood!”  he  exclaimed,  starting  up.  “Blood!  Her 


THE  LILIES  OF  FLORENCE.  83 

blood,  too!  See,  she  has  been  hurt.  Oh,  help  her!  Help 
her  ! ” 

The  horror  upon  his  face  deepened.  For  one  instant 
the  strong  mind  flashed  forth  again,  with  all  its  old  inten- 
sity. He  looked  from  the  dead  child  to  those  around  him, 
recognized  them  all  and  understood  all. 

‘‘Fritz,  Bianca,  Nella!'’  he  cried.  “I  see — I know  all 
now  ! Poor  Tessa  ! Oh,  God  ! I am  dying  ! ” 

He  sank  upon  his  knees  again,  and  then  fell  forward  be- 
side Tessa  and  threw  his  arms  about  her. 

The  two  lay  dead  together — dead  among  the  lilies. 


STORIES  AND  I.EGENDS. 


MY  RUSSIAN  RIVAL 


Vera  ? For  ten  years  she  has  been  dead,  yet  I still  shud- 
der whenever  1 hear  her  dreadful  name  spoken — and  my 
hand  trembles  even  now  as  I write  it.  I fully  believe, 
having  known  her,  that  some  of  the  daughters  of  Eve  still 
partake,  as  preachers  say,  of  the  nature  of  the  serpent  ; 
and  tliTat  in  their  veins  stiirburns  the  awful  poison  of  that 
bitter  fruit  which  forever  quenched,  silenced,  and  dimmed 
in  Eden,'“flie  glories,  splendors,  and  melodies  of  heaven. 
There  was,  too,  in  Vera  a strong  taint  of  Tartar  blood— 
though  I doubt  if  she  would  have  been  less  cruel  and 
heartless  without  it. 

A more  magnificent  woman,  physically  and  mentally,  no 
one  ever  saw,  and  no  man,  I am  sure — except  he  be  a sav- 
age — could  resist  the  music  of  her  voice,  the  magic  of  her 
laughter,  or  the  almost  unnaturally  undulant  grace  of  her 
very  movement.  In  this  last  particular  she  was  so  re- 
markably lithe,  pliant,  and  willowy,  that  her  rivals  often 
swore  that  she  was  some  dangerous  and  terrible  serpent, 
changed  into  woman  by  the  freak  of  some  wantonly  play- 
ful god.  At  first  I used  to  smile  when  this  was  said,  but 
the  time  afterward  came  when  my  smiles  ceased,  and  I 
more  than  half  believed. 

My  father,  for  many  years  a quiet  and  unimportant  poli- 
tician, was  finally  rewarded  for  wasting,  in  politics,  the 
-most  of  his  life  and  income,  by  being  made  Minister  to 
Russia.  It  was  there  that  I first  saw  Vera,  and  being,  as  I 
was,  a mere  child,  a little  white-faced  and  yellow-haired 
thing  of  sixteen,  I was  dazed  with  her  magnificence,  and 
worshipped  her  almost  at  sight.  I think  that  my  soul 
went  out  to  her  at  the  first  kiss  my  lips  received  from  her 
beautiful  mouth  ; any  way,  her  great,  dancing  black  eyes 
always  held  me  subject  to  her  will. 

It  has  been  said,  so  often  that  it  has  become  a proverb. 


88 


MV  RUSSIAN-  rival. 


that  never,  for  strictly  feminine  reasons,  can  there  be 
strong,  true,  disinterested  friendship  between  womenTand; 
that  no  woman,  except  she  is  very  old,  can  ever  be  unself- 
ishly fond  of  another  woman.  But  this  I know^tO— h.e 
false,  for  I loved  Vera  better  than"^FToved  my  soul,  better 
even  than  I loved  my  God.  'My  love  for  her  passed,  really, 
into  the  most  biassed  and  bigoted  idolatry. 

Meeting  her  changed  me  from  a soft,  gentle,  girlish 
thing,  whom  everyone  could  sway  and  bend,  into  a spiteful, 
vixenish  creature  of  impulse — bitter  against  everyone  who 
dared  speak  ill  of  her.  She  was  my  all — heaven,  earth, 
universe.  I even  gave  up  my  lover  to  her  without  any 
feeling  of  resentment ^tl5vt^ard^^^^  Wilfully  and  persist- 

ently were  my  ears  kept  shut  against  the  frightful  things 
Which  were  justly  said  of  her,  until,  having  robbed  and 
cheated  me  of  everything  else  that  I loved  and  valued,  she 
attempted  to  destroy  my  life.  Then,  and  only  then,  did 
my  blind  idolatry  end. 

Then,  too,  strangely  enough,  the  manner  of  my  old  life, 
all  gentleness  and  modest  timidity,  came  back  to  me,  and 
all  my  fierceness  and  perversity — marking,  as  it  did,  the 
whole  of  my  association  with  her — went  out  of  me  as  a 
candle  flame  goes  out  in  a strong  draught  of  wind.  I was 
once  more  my  normal,  natural  self,  and  shrunk  from  even 
my  memories  of  her,  as  if  they  had  been  a succession  of 
horrid  nightmares. 

Though  I was  not  yet  seventeen,  I was  already  betrothed 
— by  my  parents,  of  course,  after  the  evil  custom  of  my 
country — to  a man  who  was  my  senior  by  nearly  ten  years. 
But,  happily  for  me,  and  not  according  to  the  custom  of 
my  country,  my  intended  husband  and  I were  devotedly 
fond  of  each  other ; in  fact,  we  were,  in  the  strongest  and 
fullest  sense,  ardent  lovers.  He  had  been  my  protector 
and  companion  in  my  childish  excursions  about  the  city, 
and  not  infrequently  put  aside  his  dignity  and  joined  me 
in  my  little  sports  and  games.  I matured  at  a much  earlier 
age  than  is  common  with  ray  sex,  and  so  was  a woman  long 
before  any  one  realized  it  but  my  lover  and  myself.  When 
I was  sixteen  he  asked  for  my  hand,  and  was  accepted  by 
my  parents,  after  some  little  demurring  on  the  ground  of 
my  extreme  youthfulness.  A few  months  later,  when  my 
father  went  to  Russia  with  his  little  family,  leaving  Henri, 
my  lover,  behind,  I was  nearly  heart-broken  and  utterly 
disconsolate. 

Wc  left  France  in  August,  and  I could  only  be  torn  from 


MY  RUSSIAIY  RIVAL, 


89 


my  lover’s  arms  by  the  pledge  and  promise  that  he  should 
join  us  in  Russia  before  Christmas.  I wept  nearly  all  the 
way  to  our  new  and,  to  me,  detested  home,  and  it  was  with 
the  utmost  difficulty  I could  compose  myself  sufficiently 
to  receive  my  father’s  Russian  friends,  when  they  called  at 
our  hotel  to  welcome  us.  The  first  glimpse  at  Vera 
calmed  me,  and  when  the  magnificent  creature  came,  smil- 
ingly, and  kissed  me,  I was  almost  happy  again. 

1 do  not  like  her,”  said  my  mother,  when  we  were  alone  ; 
and  straightway  I flew  into  the  first  passion  of  my  life, 

I declared,  hotly  and  fiercely,  and  stoutly  maintained  it, 
too,  that  Vera  was  an  angel — flawless  and  perfect.  God, 
I averred,  would  never  have  bestowed  beauty  and  grace 
■^c1i"as  here  upon  anyone  without  accompanying  it  with 
fhe'^sublitnest  virtue  and  the  rarest  mental  endowments. 
******1^11  ether  I believed  all  this  or  not  I do  not  know,  for  I 
never  once  stopped  to  analyze  my  feelings — perhaps  it 
would  have  been  an. impossibility  for  me  to  have  done  so, 
she  so  dazzled  and  bewildered  me.  1 am,  however,  certain 
that  I never  should  have  tried,  because  for  all  the  mad  in- 
fatuation and  jealous  love  I bore  her,  there  was,  constantly 
haunting  me,  the  fear  that  from  some  hidden  recess  of  my 
own  soul,  or  from  the  lips  of  some  one  to  whom  she  was 
less  than  she  was  to  me,  there  might  come  forth  some  sin- 
ister doubt  which  would  menace  with  blame  the  splendid 
creature  whom  I held  blameless. 

She  saw  my  devotion,  and  rewarded  me,  daily,  with  such 
tender  caresses  as  women  only  bestow  upon  their  lovers. 
And  so  she  tightened  and  strengthened  the  bonds  which 
held  me,  body,  soul,  all — subject  to  her — as  no  autocrat 
ever  yet  held  imperial  sway  over  loyal  empire.  I believed 
that  she  loved  me  as  dearly  and  as  intensely  as  I loved  her, 
and  whenever  those  who  saw  how  falsely  she  was  dealing 
with  me  tried  to  warn  me  and  put  me  on  my  guard,  I in- 
variably assailed  my  counsellor  as  fiercely  as  a pantheress 
would  assail  the  disturber  of  her  whelps. 

When  the  time  for  Henri’s  arrival  drew  near,  I half  re- 
gretted that  he  was  coming — it  would  interrupt  my  trans- 
ports with  Vera.  He  would  be  sure  to  claim  some  of  my 
afternoons,  which  she  always  gave  me.  We  used  to  go 
into  her  boudoir  each  noon,  immediately  after  lunch,  re- 
maining there  always  until  we  dressed  for  dinner  ; and 
there  was,  to  me,  more  unalloyed  bliss  in  these  afternoons 
with  her  than  there  had  ever  been  in  the  moments  I had 
spent  upon  my  lover’s  bosom. 


90 


MY  RUSSIAN  RIVAL. 


To  fully  understand  Vera’s  tremendous  influence  over 
me  it  must  be  remembered,  all  along,  that  there  was  no  el- 
ement of  fickleness  in  my  nature,  and  that  my  love  for 
Henri  was  never  for  one  moment  shakable  or  wavering. 
He  held  the  same  place  in  my  heart  as  of  old — only  to  her 
I had  given  a stronger,  wilder,  more  vehement  love — a 
feeling  so  all-absorbing,  all-compelling,  that  it  thoroughly 
relegated  every  one  and  everything  but  Vera  to  a second- 
ary place.  Nothing  could  compensate  me  for  the  loss  of 
even  a single  afternoon  with  her,  when,  in  half-harem 
dress,  we  used  to  lie  in  each  other’s  arms — I drinking  in, 
with  fiercest  delight,  every  word  which  fell  from  her  lips. 

All  that  marred  my  happiness  at  such  times  was  the  re- 
gret that  I was  not  a man,  and  so  able  to  keep  some  man 
from  some  day  coming  between  us.  I was  jealous,  but  in 
sucli  a strange  and  foolish  way.  If  she,  of  her  own  will, 
bestowed  her  smiles  and  favors  upon  others,  it  gave  me  no 
pain  or  annoyance,  because  in  my  love  for  her  there  was 
no  room  for  criticism.  What  she,  my  idol,  did  was  per- 
fectly right ; I neither  could  nor  would  see  it  in  any  other 
way.  But  whenever  any  one  intruded  upon  her,  or  in  any 
way  approached  her,  murder  instantly  came  into  my  heart 
and  I wanted  to  destroy  the  aggressor.  It  was  this  wliich, 
to  some  extent,  made  me  dread  the  coming  of  my  lover. 
He  was  certain  to  overstep  this  bound,  and  then  I feared 
that  I should  do  him  harm,  or,  at  least,  learn  to  hate  him. 
But  he  came  at  last,  and,  to  my  surprise — since  she  had 
always  declared  herself  a man-hater — she  seemed  fascina- 
ted by  him  the  moment  she  set  eyes  upon  him. 

So  deep  and  powerful  was  my  devotion  to  her,  that  her 
interest  in  him  never  excited  in  me  the  slightest  degree  of 
anger  or  bitterness.  She  still  gave  me  each  afternoon,  and 
so  I was  content.  She  was  even  more  caressing  to  me 
than  ever  before,  and  that,  I said  to  myself,  was  because 
her  noble  nature  reproached  her  for  liking  the  man  who 
was  my  betrothed  husband. 

Henri  saw  through  it  all,  and  besought  me  to  tear  Vera 
out  of  my  heart,  marry  him  at  once,  and  return  with  him 
to  Paris.  Blind  to  my  best  interests  and  half-demented,  I 
refused  to  consider  his  proposition  for  an  instant.  I said, 
flatly  and  bluntly,  that  there  was  no  man  in  the  world 
for  whom  I would  leave  Vera.  Upon  his  attempting 
to  soothe  me,  preparatory,  as  I thought,  to  a renewal  of 
his  admonitions  and  entreaties,  I became  enraged  and  for- 
bade his  ever  making  mention  of  her,  unless  he  could  do 


MV  RUSSIAN  RIVAL, 


91 


it  in  a manner  agreeable  to  me.  This  he  swore  was  im- 
possible, and  so  we  had  our  first  quarrel. 

After  that  I declined  seeing  him,  except  in  the  presence 
of  my  family.  My  mother  sided  against  me,  partly  be- 
cause I was  so  manifestly  wrong,  and  partly  because  she 
had  always  disliked  Vera.  My  father,  enchanted  with  Ve- 
ra’s beauty,  wit  and  grace,  said  nothing  to  the  others, 
though  he  gave  me  to  understand  that  he  did  not  alto- 
gether disapprove  of  my  conduct. 

So  things  went  on  for  several  weeks,  until  I began 
doubting  if  Henri  ever  intended  going  away  from  Russia. 

All  at  once,  I discovered  a marked  change  in  his  manner 
toward  Vera.  Her  powerful  charms  and  perfect  woman- 
hood were  taking  effect  upon  him  at  last,  and  he  was  be- 
ginning to  like  her.  Then  came  the  test  of  her  power  over 
me  and  the  fullest  possible  proof  of  my  utter  subjection  to 
her.  I had  known,  almost  from  the  moment  of  their  first 
meeting,  that  he  had  made  an  effaceless  impression  upon 
her  heart,  and  I pitied  her,  because  I felt  that  it  must  nec- 
essarily cause  her  suffering. 

Still  I thought  that  the  love  between  Vera  and  me  was 
as  strong  on  her  part  as  it  was  on  mine  ; and  so  I reasoned 
it  out  that  when  he  was  once  gone,  and  she  and  I were 
again  alone  with  each  other,  our  mutual  love  for  each 
other  would  soon  heal  in  her  heart  the  tvound  which  his 
coming  had  made. 

When  I really  and  unmistakably  saw  that  he  was  get- 
ting fond  of  her,  instead  of  regretting  it  I was  glad — glad, 
because  I loved  her  so  much  that  whatever  added  to  her 
happiness  also  added  to  mine. 

My  love  for  her  was  greater  than  my  love  for  him,  and 
there  was  no  doubt  in  my  mind  but  that  I would,  also,  for- 
ever hold  the  foremost  place  in  her  heart.  That  point  set- 
tled, it  was  immaterial  to  me  whether  Vera  or  I became 
Henri’s  wife  ; in  either  event,  she  and  I would  not  be  sep- 
arated, and  that  was  the  sole  thing  in  life  which  I dreaded. 
Since  she  loved  him,  if  he  married  her,  I would  have  the 
happiness  of  sacrificing  my  cherished  dream  for  her  sake, 
and  that,  perhaps,  would  make  me  all  the  dearer  to  her 
because  of  my  magnanimity. 

One  day,  when  my  heart  was  full  of  this,  I put  the  mat- 
ter to  her,  and  stoutly  asserted  that  I w^ould  rather  see  her 
his  wife  than  marry  him  myself.  She  was  thoroughly  sur- 
prised, burst  into  tears,  and  sobbed  her  perplexity  out  on 
my  bosom.  She  confessed  to  me  that  she  loved  Henri, 


92 


MV  RUSSIAN  RIVAL, 


but  assured  me  that  nothing  could  tempt  her  to  infringe 
upon  my  rights,  especially  when  we  were  all  guests  of  her 
father’s. 

Laughing  at  the  scruples  which  she  expressed,  I in- 
formed her,  in  the  most  positive  and  unmistakable  terms, 
that  I had  changed  the  views  I had  hitherto  held  regard- 
ing matrimonial  life,  and  that  I should  never  marry.  Go- 
ing a step  further,  I added  that  I should  at  once  give  Hen- 
ri his  dismissal,  and  so  open  the  way  clearly  for  her.  This 
she  dissuaded  me  from  doing,  actuated,  very  likely,  by 
the  fear  that  the  next  thing  following  Henri’s  dismissal 
would  be  his  departure  from  Russia.  I promised  to  let 
matters  stand  as  they  were  until  he  had  given  her  some 
token  which  would  convince  her  that  he  was  in  love  with 
her  ; and  of  course  I agreed  to  this  readily  and  willingly. 
What  could  she  have  wanted  of  me  that  I would  not  have 
granted  her? 

And  so,  under  my  very  eyes,  and  with  my  full  sanction 
and  approval,  I let  their  love-making  go  on.  Finally,  he  of- 
fered her  his  hand  and  heart.  She  accepted  him  upon  the 
condition  that  he  should  first  obtain  his  release  from  his 
love  pledges  to  me.  He  came  to  me,  acknowledging  his 
passion  for  her  and  the  wrong  it  was  doing  me.  No  whit 
did  he  spare  himself,  but  debased  himself  completely. 

“ I do  not  know  what  to  call  this  feeling  I bear  her,”  he 
wailed;  ^‘it  is  something  too  horrible  and  unholy  to  call 
love.  The  love  1 bore  you  was  sweet,  pure,, and  noble  ; it 
made  my  whole  life  better.  But  this  woman  holds  me 
with  a chain  stronger  than  iron,  and  it  burns  fiercer  than 
fire.  I cannot  resist  her.  I am  spellbound.  I am  a cow- 
ard  ” 

Stop  ! ” I cried,  “ you  can  have  your  freedom  ; but  I can- 
not let  a man  whose  faith  I once  accepted  do  both  himself 
and  a noble  woman  such  gross  injustice.  Vera  is  my  dear- 
est friend — the  only  person  on  earth  whom  I love — and 
she  is  in  every  way  a worthier  woman  than  I am,  or  ever 
have  been.  Go  to  her.  I wish  you  only  happiness.” 

Could  any  woman  have  done  more  than  this  for  the 
sake  of  another  woman  ? Did  any  woman  ever  do  so 
much  before  ? 

Still,  I must  admit  that  I did  it  all  freely  and  unreserv- 
edly— moved,  solely  and  entirely,  by  the  love  I bore  her, 
and  by  nothing  else.  There  was  in  it  no  sense  of  duty  ; 
no  feeling  of  regret  for  the  loss  of  my  lover ; no  thought 
on  my  part  that  there  was  any  element  of  nobleness  in 


MY  RUSSIAN  RIVAL, 


93 


it — nothing  of  the  kind.  The  only  factor  moving  me  was 
my  love  for  her  ; even  now,  I must  maintain  this  much  of 
the  old  feeling. 

When  my  mother  was  informed  of  the  new  turn  in  af- 
fairs, she  was  provoked  and  distressed  beyond  the  antici- 
pation of  any  one.  She  insisted  that  she  and  my  father 
alone  had  the  right  of  breaking  the  engagement  between 
Henri  and  I,  and  that  she  would  never  permit  me  to  so 
foolishly  sacrifice  my  happiness.  My  fatiier  was  shocked, 
but  he  was  also  silent.  I coolly  informed  my  mother  that 
she  might  as  well  follow  my  father’s  example,  and  hold 
her  peace,  since  no  power  on  earth  could  now  prevail 
upon  me  to  become  Henri’s  wife. 

Father  accepted  my  stubborn  persistence  in  doing  as  I 
pleased  with  a sigh  ; just  as  he  had  accepted  everything 
else  which  was  a phenomena  of  the  new  traits  which  my 
association  with  Vera  had  developed  in  me  ; but  my  mother 
was  not  to  be  so  easily  thwarted.  She  made  an  onslaught 
upon  my  father  which  would  have  won  him  into  com- 
pliance with  her  wishes  but  for  a severe  and  unaccountable 
illness  with  which  she  was  suddenly  seized  that  evening. 
This,  of  course,  hindered  further  interference  from  her. 
She  was  very  sick  for  three  days,  when  the  physicians 
startled  us  by  saying  that  she  could  not,  at  most,  live  be- 
yond midnight,  barely  eight  hours. 

Vera,  seemingly  as  much  distressed  as  any  of  us,  assisted 
me  in  attending  my  dying  mother.  About  nightfall  I was 
absent  from  the  sick  room  an  hour,  during  the  most  of 
which  time  they  were  alone  together.  On  my  return  my 
mother  startled  me  by  declaring  that  Vera  had  just  given 
her  poisoned  wine. 

I screamed  and  would  have  fallen  to  the  floor  but  for 
Vera,  who  caught  me  in  her  arms.  Henri  and  my  father 
rushed  quickly  in,  closely  followed  by  the  physicians. 

“ Madam  thought  I gave  her  poisoned  wine,”  said  Vera, 
with  perfect  calmness,  and  stooping  to  kiss  me  as  she  spoke. 

The  most  of  what  I offered  her  is  still  in  the  glass  yonder, 
on  the  medicine  table.  One  of  you  doctors  can  relieve  me 
of  a dying  woman’s  fearful  resentment  by  examining  what 
remains  in  the  glass.  Mademoiselle  was  alarmed  by  her 
mother’s  words.” 

The  physicians  snatched  up  the  glass,  but  could  detect 
no  trace  of  poison  in  it.  A chemical  analysis,  later  on, 
resulted  in  a similar  verdict. 

Before  midnight  my  mother  was  dead. 


94 


MV  RUSSIAiV  RIVAL, 


Henri  and  my  father  regarded  Vera  with  suspicion,  I 
was  convinced  of  her  innocence.  Her  manner  alone  was 
enough  to  satisfy  me.  My  head  had  lain  against  her  heart 
from  the  moment  when  my  mother  accused  Vera  of  poi- 
soning her  until  the  physicians  had  pronounced  the  wine 
pure.  All  this  while  the  pulsations  of  Vera’s  heart  were 
never  in  the  least  accelerated.  Would  this  have  been  pos- 
sible, I asked  myself,  had  she  been  in  any  way  guilty  ? 

A few  days  after  the  burial  of  my  mother  my  father  sum- 
moned me  into  his  private  office.  Without  leaving  me 
more  than  time  enough  to  close  the  door  behind  me  and 
sit  down,  he  began  speaking  of  my  broken  engagement 
with  Henri.  It  was  my  mother’s  desire,  he  said,  to  force 
Henri  to  abandon  his  passion  for  Vera  and  carry  out  his 
marriage  contract  with  me. 

I attempted  to  speak,  but  he  forbade  me.  He  should  see 
Henri  about  the  matter  the  next  morning,  after  which 
time  he  would  have  more  to  say  to  me.  With  that  I was 
sent  away  from  the  private  office  until  liis  further  pleasure 
again  made  my  presence  there  necessary. 

To  say  that  I was  angry  would  but  ill  express  my  state 
of  mind  at  that  moment.  Had  it  been  possible  to  have 
regained  access  to  his  office,  at  any  time  within  the  hour 
following  our  interview,  I would  have  killed  him. 

Immediately  after  leaving  him,  I encountered  Henri  in 
one  of  the  corridors,  and  told  him  what  my  father  had 
said.  To  my  dismay  he  at  once  declared  that  my  father 
was  entirely  right.  I then  sought  Vera  and  told  her  ail. 
She  expressed  no  opinion,  but  begged  me  to  believe  that 
the  whole  thing  would  come  right  of  itself.  We  could 
only  wait,  at  most,  she  ,said,  and  we  might  not  have  long 
to  wait. 

We  did  not  have  long  to  wait. 

The  next  morning  my  father  was  found  dead  in  his  bed. 
When  the  physicians  came,  they  discovered  in  my  father’s 
hair  a deadly  reptile  from  Southern  Tartary,  the  sting  of 
wliich  had  penetrated  the  sleeping  man’s  brain,  killing  him 
instantly. 

The  startling  question  was,  How  came  the  reptile  in  my 
father’s  room  ? An  investigation  was  ordered,  but  it  had 
to  be  abandoned  for  want  of  a single  clew  as  to  who  had 
perpetrated  the  dreadful  crime. 

It  was  clear  to  me  that  Henri  suspected  Vera,  and  once 
again  was  I convinced  of  her  innocence — not  alone  by  my 
faith  in  her — but  because  of  her  frankness  and  perfect 


MV  RUSSIA iV  RIVAL, 


95 


calmness.  Throughout  the  whole  of  the  day  following 
my  father’s  death  Henri  kept  making  efforts  to  talk  with 
me  privately,  but  I succeeded  in  avoiding  him  every  time. 

Late  in  the  afternoon  I went  to  my  chamber  and  threw 
myself  across  my  bed,  out  of  sheer  fatigue.  Almost  in- 
stantly I fell  into  a deep  slumber.  I was  awakened  by  a 
strong  and  unpleasant  odor.  Opening  my  eyes,  I saw 
Vera  standing  beside  me,  pouring  oil  over  me  and  over 
the  bed.  I tried  to  rise,  but  found  myself  tightly  bound 
to  the  bed.  As  she  looked  down  into  my  eyes,  her  face 
became  dark,  fierce,  and  fiendish. 

‘H  am  a Tartar,”  she  said,  ‘‘and  it  is  a custom  of  my 
countrymen  to  burn  fools  alive.  That  will  be  your  fate. 
I have  always  hated  you,  so  I shall  enjoy  burning  you. 
Your  mother  and  father  met  death  at  my  hands — so  shall 
you.  If  I let  you  live  longer,  Henri  will  forsake  me  and 
love  you  again  ; otherwise,  bad  as  I hate  you,  I would  let 
you  live,  because  you  gave  him  to  me.  Do  not  cry  out, 
or  I will  cut  your  throat  with  this  knife.” 

Just  then  the  knife  was  snatched  from  her  hand  by 
Henri  himself.  He  cut  me  loose  from  the  bed,  but  she 
set  fire  to  my  clothing. 

Then  I went  into  a dead  faint. 

Henri  saved  me,  but  the  flames  which  Vera  had  intend- 
ed for  my  destruction  caused  her  death  instead.  That  was 
ten  years  ago  ; and  Henri  and  I have  been  husband  and 
wife  for  nine  of  the  intervening  years. 


SEA  VOICES 


She  came  ta  them  out  of  the  sea,  and  some  of  the  simple 
^fisherfolk  thought  that  she  was  born  of  the  sea. 

For  three  days  and  nights  a fierce  storm  had  been  sweep- 
ing down  upon  the  bleak  northern  coast,  and  through  all 
that  time  the  wind  and  the  rocks  had  been  tossing  and 
churning  the  sea  back  and  forth  and  lashing  it  into  a fury 
so  turbulent  that  no  ship  built  by  mortal  hands  could  ever 
have  passed  the  dangerous  shoals  and  spurs  and  reached 
the  tiny  harbor,  which  was  the  only  safe  haven  for  a hun- 
dred miles. 

Through  all  those  fearful  days  and  nights  the  patient 
fishermen  kept  constant  watch  for  whoever  and  whatever 
might  be  driven  shoreward  from  some  wrecked  or  dis- 
mantled ship. 

By  day  they  kept  their  glasses  bent  seaward  in  every 
direction,  and  by  night  they  had  great  fires  burning  all 
along  the  rough  and  craggy  coast.  ^ 

But  the  sea  seemed  forsaken,  and  never  once  did  they 
see  a sail  or  hear  a signal  of  distress. 

After  nightfall,  on  the  third  day  and  last  day  of  the  great 
storm,  old  Manlo,  by  many  years  the  oldest  fisherman  for 
scores  of  miles  along  the  coast,  stood  sadly  by  himself 
near  the  water’s  edge. 

Suddenly  there  was  a flash  of  lightning  so  bright  and 
vivid  that  it  revealed  to  Manlo  a small  wliite  object,  rounder 
and  shapelier  than  any  of  the  frothy  masses  of  foam,  riding 
toward  him  swiftly  upon  one  of  the  nearest  waves.  Before 
the  sharp  peal  of  accompanying  thunder  came  the  sea  had 
deposited  its  freight  at  the  old  man’s  feet. 

He  stooped  and  picked  up  a naked  female  child,  scarcely 
a year  old,  which  smiled  and  cooed  as  happily  as  if  it  lay 
upon  its  mother’s  bosom. 

The  old  man’s  eyes,  dry  for  years  because  of  a grief 


SEA  VOICES, 


97 


which  had  spent  itself,  shed  tears  anew  ; and  praying  in  his 
heart  that  the  little  one  might  stay  with  him  and  solace 
him  for  a sweet,  prattling  babe  whom  death  had  snatched 
from  his  sheltering  arms  before  time  had  stolen  the  color 
of  youth  from  his  hair  and  cheeks,  he  turned  his  back  on 
the  sea  and  walked  away,  all  heedless  of  the  sweeping  wind 
and  the  hissing,  blinding  rain. 

He  was  still  walking  heedlessly,  when  some  of  the  other 
fishermen,  who  were  coming  down  to  the  coast,  met  the 
two,  and  paused  to  ask  questions  about  the  strange  child. 
But  even  the  darkness  failed  to  hide  from  their  curious 
eyes  the  powerful  emotions  which  moved  their  old  friend, 
so  they  stood  back  and  watched  him  in  silence  as  he  went 
slowly  on.  Occasional  flashes  of  lightning  disclosed  the 
tenderness  that  glowed  upon  the  old  face,  which  for  so 
long  had  been  stern  and  hard,  and  the  dainty  baby-fingers, 
which  now  clutched  the  snowy  beard,  and  now  toyed  with 
the-  wrinkled,  storm-beaten  face,  and  the  rain  of  kisses 
which  the  little  fingers  met  whenever  they  came  near  the 
old  but  smiling  mouth.  x 

Tears  and  kisses  from  one  who  for  two  score  years  had 
neither  shed  the  one  nor  given  nor  taken  the  other  ! It 
seemed  so  strange  and  yet  so  natural  and  so  beautiful, 
even  to  the  rude  fishermen,  that  they  walked  quietly  away 
and  never  once  spoke  to  each  other  about  it,  for  hours. 

The  old  man,  still  sheltering  the  naked  babe  upon  his 
breast,  and  protecting  her  from  the  storm  with  his  rough, 
stained,  and  smeared  coat,  went  slowly  on  toward  his  poor 
little  cabin,  where  it  stood,  isolated  and  alone,  in  a hol- 
low which  the  great  forces  that  shaped  the  world  had 
scooped  out  of  the  solid  rock. 

It  is  little  Rita,”  he  kept  saying  to  himself,  ‘Tt  is  my 
own  little  Rita.  Death  took  her  from  me  so  very  long 
ago,  but  now  the  sea  has  snatched  her  from  her  grave  and 
has  given  her  back  to  me.” 

There  was  no  ship  wrecked  on  the  coast  that  night,  and 
at  daylight  when  the  storm  had  ceased  there  was  no  sign 
of  any  on  the  sea. 

Whence  the  child  came  puzzled  everyone  but  Manlo  ; 
and  that  she  could  have  come  safely  shoreward  over  the 
shoals  and  crags,  through  such  a sea,  seemed  still  more 
mysterious. 

The  fishermen,  awed  and  fearful,  said  that  she  was  no 
hu»ian  child,  but  a wraith — or  the  offspring  of  some  wan- 
ton sea-nymph — cast  forth  from  the  caverns  of  the  ocean 
7 


98 


SEA  VOICES, 


to  bring  sorrow  into  the  homes  of  men.  It  was  thus  that 
they  reasoned  among  themselves  when  the  morning  came, 
and  the  sea  gave  them  no  clew  as  to  the  coming  of  the 
child. 

So,  full  of  terror  and  superstitious  dread,  they  went  down 
into  the  lonely  little  hollow,  to  the  cabin  of  old  Manlo,  to 
demand  that  the  child  whom  the  sea  had  given  forth 
should  be  cast  back  into  the  sea. 

They  went  to  the  cabin  silently  and  in  a body  ; and  si- 
lently and  in  a body  they  came  away. 

When  Manlo's  door  was  opened  by  his  unseen  and  un- 
summoned visitors,  that  which  met  their  eyes  turned  them 
from  their  purpose  instantly,  without  the  exchange  of  a 
word  or  a glance. 

The  two  whom  they  sought  were  sleeping,  the  younger 
upon  the  elder’s  breast.  One  of  her  little  hands  was  in 
his  and  the  other  was  about  his  neck.  His  strong  but 
withered  right  arm  held  her  closely,  so  that  she  could  not 
fall.  Their  faces  were  together,  hers  being  partly  veiled 
by  his  long  white  beard. 

As  they  slept  they  smiled.  ‘‘  So  the  angels  smile,” 
thought  one  of  the  fishermen,  and,  beckoning  to  his  com- 
panions, he  led  them  away,  ashamed,  and  with  their  de- 
mand unspoken. 

Years  came  and  went,  and  the  child  still  lived  with  the 
old  man  who  had  rescued  her  from  the  storm.  , 

He  and  all  his  brother-fishermen  were  fair-skinned,  yel- 
low-haired and  blue-eyed  ; but  the  child  was  unlike  them. 
The  rich  color  in  her  face,  her  dark  eyes  and  hair,  and  her 
round  limbs  and  impetuous  temper,  bespoke  the  Latin 
races  of  the  warm  South.  The  fishermen  still  shook  their 
heads  and  believed  that  some  day  the  evil  people  of  the 
sea  who  had  sent  her  to  them  would  reclaim  her.  They 
said  that  the  glitter  in  her  eyes,  when  she  was  angry,  was 
such  as  they  saw  upon  the  crests  of  the  waves  on  stormy 
nights. 

Then,  too,  she  was  always  by  herself,  and  loved  the  sea 
better  than  anything  else,  save  old  Manlo,  whose  sole  hap- 
piness she  was.  Since  he  took  her  out  of  the  sea,  a strange 
forgetfulness  had  come  over  him,  and  he  seemed  to  live 
only  in  the  past,  which  was  all  unknown  to  his  fellow- 
fishermen.  He  never  tired  of  saying  that  the  child  was 
Rita,  his  dead  granddaughter,  come  back  to  life  again,  and 
she  never  questioned  the  relationship. 

From  her  babyhood,  her  happiest  days  were  those  she 


SEA  VOICES. 


99 


spent  by  the  sea,  where  she  could  watch  the  undulating 
waters  and  hear  their  splashing  upon  the  sand  and  among 
the  rocks.  A dreamy  look  would  always  come  into  her 
eyes  and  a tender  smile  upon  her  lips. 

Others  heard  but  the  low  wash  of  overlapping  waves, 
their  gurgling  when  they  broke  upon  the  beach,  and  the 
murmuring  and  sighing  of  the  winds.  But  she,  bending 
her  beautiful  dark  head  and  breathing  lightly,  heard  faint, 
sweet  sounds,  too  delicate  and  indistinct  for  less  sensitive 


ears. 


She  heard  voices  from  over  the  seas  and  from  the  mystical 
unknown  islands  which  no  mortal  has  seen.  The  voices 
sang  of  eternal  summer,  of  endless  days  along  green,  leafy 
shores,  of  unbroken  peace  and  of  deathless  love.  Day  after 
day  she  heard  them,  above  the  fiercest  storm,  as  plainly  as 
when  the  winds  and  seas  were  calm. 

Though  she  loved  old  Manlo  dearly,  she  often  mused 
and  wondered  whether  the  far-away,  unseen  singers  would 
not  some  day  come  and  bear  her  off  to  the  elysian  isles  and 
bowers  whose  blisses  filled  all  their  music. 

In^oftest  whisper  she  asked  the  question,  and  in  still 
softer  song  the  voices  answered  her.  They  said  that  she 
should  be  with  them  when  first  her  heart  hg-d  known  the 
pulses  of  love,  and  sin,  and  hatred,  and  the  quiet  of  re- 
pentance and  peace. 

Maidenly  shame  first  burned  in  her  cheeks,  and  after  it 
came  the  pallor  of  fear  and  dread.  But  hope  soon 
brightened  her  eyes  and  sent  the  pain  curves  from  the 
corners  of  her  mouth.  A faint  moan  parted  her  lips 
which  ended  in  a sigh. 

iL.Now  all  the  course  of  my  life  is  known  to  me,”  she 
murmured  p^^and  I must  strengthen  myself  to  meet  it  as 
jt  comes.  Better  it  would  have  been  for  me  to  have  met  it 
blindly  and  without  questions.” 

For  a time  even  old  Manlo’s  kindnesses  almost  failed 
to  win  smiles  from  her,  and  regret  and  discontent  rankled 
in  her  heart.  The  voices  vainly  sang  of  the  joyous  days 
beyond  the  brief  bridge  of  pain,  but  she  listened  to  them 
sullenly,  and  so  each  day  they  became  fainter  until  they 
ceased.  Then  blustering  winter  came,  and  for  all  her 
sorrow  and  disconsolate  woe  she  heard  no  sound  from  the 
sea  but  the  waves  and  the  wind  and  the  storms. 

With  the  spring-sunshine,  peace  came  back  to  her  heart, 
and  she  no  longer  rebelled  against  the  life  of  which  the 
sea-voices  sang  to  her  in  the  warm  days  of  the  summer 


4c- 


TOO 


SEA  VOICES. 


that  was  past.  After  that,  she  could  hear  the  voices  again, 
but  she  could  not  distinguish  the  words  they  sang. 

‘‘That,”  she  said  to  herself,  “is  my  punishment  for  dis- 
content.” 

Early  in  the  summer  some  nobles  came  to  the  coast  from 
the  emperor’s  court,  and  with  them  was  a young  ,pxiuce 
of  Rita’s  age. 

At  the  first  glance  they  exchanged,  the  two  seemed  fas- 
cinated with  each  other,  and  Rita  no  longer  listened  for 
the  sea  voices.  She  found  sweeter  solace  and  pleasanter 
music  in  the  words  which  fell  from  the  Prince’s  lips.  All 
through  each  day  they  were  inseparable  companions;  but 
the  nobles  who  came  with  the  Prince,  and  old  Manlo  and 
his  fisher-friends,  thought  them  too  young  for  love,  or 
harm  to  come  of  their  being  so  much  together. 

“ Children  never  love  but  a day,”  said  one  after  another, 
with  careless  laughter  ; and  so  Rita  and  the  Prince  spent 
each  day  of  their  seventeenth  summer  alone  by  them- 
selves. 

One  day,  when  they  were  walking  together  along  the 
coast,  they  found  a rare,  delicate,  and  curious  shell,  such 
as  neither  had  ever  seen  before. 

“You  are  like  this  shell,”  said  the  Prince,  as  he  kissed 
her.  “ It  will  never  be  the  lot  of  any  man  to  find  another 
like  either.” 

She  thought  of  the  voices  and  sighed. 

“Yes,”  she  said,  “ I am  but  an  empty  shell,  tossed  up  by 
the  sea,  borrowing  melodies  from  the  winds  and  the  waves, 
and  giving  them  back  again  after  a fashion  all  their  own.” 

Puzzled  and  surprised,  he  asked  what  she  meant,  but 
she  did  not  answer  him. 

Long  before  the  summer  was  gone,  the  Prince’s  love 
became  so  much  to  Rita  that  she  feared  to  have  old  Man- 
lo’s  eyes  rest  upon  her  face,  lest  in  her  own  eyes  he  should 
read  the  secret  she  knew  not  how  to  hide. 

When  the  summer  ended  the  Prince  went  away  with  the 
nobles,  but  he  swore  to  Rita  that  he  would  return  to  her, 
before  the  snow  came  again,  and  make  her  his  wife. 

Eagerly  she  watched  for  him,  but  the  snow  came  and 
went  with  no  sign  of  his  handsome,  smiling  face.  Each 
day,  after  the  coming  of  the  snow,  her  bitterness  and 
anguish  increased,  and  just  before  midwinter  she  became 
a mother.  When  her  babe  was  a month  old  it  died  ; and 
that  night  she  tossed  its  little  lifeless  body  into  the  cold 
winter  sea  and  fled,  alone  and  in  the  darkness,  from  the 


SEA  FO/CES, 


lOI 


place  where  she  had  known  all  her  happiness  and  all  her 
shame. 

Old  Manlo  but  half  understood  it,  and  each  day  his 
feebleness  grew  upon  him. 

“Years  and  years  ago,”  he  said,  ^Sve  buried  her;  but 
she  was  not  dead,  and  after  a time  the  sea  gave  her  back 
to  me.  That  was  because  I never  believed,  like  the  others, 
that  she  was  dead.  She  stayed  with  me  for  awhile,  and  would 
be  with  me  now,  but  sometimes  God  sleeps,  and  once  while 
he  slept  the  devil  came  and  stole  her  away  from  me.” 

Spring  and  summer  brought  no  news  of  Rita,  so  the 
fisher-folk  thought  that  she  must  have  destroyed  herself 
in  the  sea.  They  were  saying  this  over  to  themselves  for 
the  hundredth  time  when  old  Manlo  appeared  among 
them,  with  his  gray  head  uncovered,  and  a smile  of  child- 
ish glee  and  happiness  on  his  face. 

“ I am  going  to  Rita  at  last,”  he  said  ; “ for  I know  now 
where  she  is.  It  was  the  people  of  the  sea  who  brought 
her  to  us,  all  safe  and  unharmed,  through  that  awful  storm. 
It  was  their  soft  hands  that  kept  the  rough  water  from 
dashing  her  upon  the  crags  and  shoals.  They  saved  her 
because  they  loved  her,  and  they  only  let  her  come  to  me 
because  I was  so  lonely.  I do  not  think  any  more  that 
she  is  my  own  Rita,  my  dead  grandchild,  for  I have 
been  to  her  grave,  and  she  still  lies  there  in  the  poor  little 
box  I made  for  her  so  long,  so  very  long  ago.  After  she 
died  I had  only  the  sea  to  love,  so  the  sea  brought  me 
this  little  one  from  some  far-away  shore,  to  soften  my  hard 
old  heart.  But  the  sea-people  were  always  calling  her 
back  to  them,  and  she  often  told  me  what  the  voices  said 
to  her.  Last  night  they  were  calling  me,  and  her  voice 
was  plainest  of  them  all.  So  now  I am  going  to  them  and 
to  her.” 

Ever  since  the  unknown  child,  whom  he  had  called 
Rita,  came  to  him  out  of  the  sea,  old  Manlo  had  always 
been  uttering  strange  fancies  one  moment,  only  to  forget 
them  in  the  next,  so  the  fishermen  only  listened  to  him 
sadly,  and  did  not  think  of  following  him  as  he  walked 
away  seaward. 

He  went  straight  down  to  the  beach.  It  was  ebb  tide, 
and  with  a vacant  look  in  his  eyes  he  followed  the  slowly- 
retreating  sea.  Finally,  overcome  by  a sudden  weakness, 
he  fell,  helplessly,  upon  the  wet  sand.  Before  the  tide 
turned,  his  last  breath  was  drawn,  and  long  before  morning 
the  undertow  swept  his  dead  body  away. 


102 


SEA  VOICES. 


Before  the  summer  was  gone,  a young  fisherman  and 
his  bride  began  their  wedded  life  in  old  Manlo’s  deserted 
cabin.  In  a few  years  the  lonely  place  was  merry  with  the 
noise  and  prattle  of  children,  and  the  old  man  who  first 
made  it  his  home  was  forgotten. 

The  years  went  slowly  on,  and  the  perfect  quiet  of  the 
village  was  only  broken  by  an  occasional  birth,  death,  or 
marriage. 

The  emperor,  full  of  years,  was  dying  in  his  palace  in 
the  South,  and  his  eldest  son,  the  same  prince  who  had  be- 
trayed the  old  fisherman’s  adopted  granddaughter,  was 
about  becoming  emperor  in  his  father’s  stead. 

It  was  at  this  time,  when  the  royal  death  was  anticipated 
from  day  to  day,  that  a strange  woman  suddenly  appeared 
in  the  bleak  northern  fishing  village.  She  was  very  beau- 
tiful, and  her  beauty  was  heightened  by  her  black,  solemn, 
monastic  robes. 

She  wandered  about  the  village  and  along  the  coast,  and 
though  her  preference  was  unnoticed,  she  seemed  to  linger 
most  fondly  in  the  cottage  that  old  Manlo  had  built.  She 
said  it  reminded  her  of  the  place  where  her  childhood  was 
spent,  and  asked  for  its  history. 

One  of  the  old  fishermen  told  her  the  story,  and  when  he 
described  old  Manlo’s  last  days,  the  w^oman  burst  into 
tears.  They  all  thought  that  she  was  touched  by  the  old 
man’s  sad  life,  and  never  once  dreamed  that  for  many 
years  she  had  been  as  the  light  of  his  eyes. 

Leaving  the  cabin  and  its  memories,  she  went  out  along 
the  coast,  and  stood  on  a high  bluff  overlooking  the  sea. 
It  w^as  high  tide,  and  the  frothy,  green  water  was  thundering 
and  dashing  against  the  jagged  rocks,  fifty  feet  below  her. 

‘‘It  was  here,”  she  murmured,  “that  his  love  was  first 
spoken.  It  was  here  that  I first  realized  how  sweet  his 
voice  was,  and  that  I had  a heart.  He  made  me  suffer, 
and  for  a time  I hated  him,  for  the  shame  his  love  brought 
upon  me  deprived  me  of  the  right  to  stay  by  dear  old 
Manlo’s  side  until  his  life  was  done.  But  that  is  over  now, 
and  I forgive  him.  Nay,  I did  that  long  ago.  I loved 
him  if  he  did  not  love  me,  and  my  only  earthly  wish  is  to 
see  his  face  and  hear  his  voice  once  more.  It  would  not 
matter  even  if  he  did  not  see  me  at  all,  and  spoke  to  some- 
one else — perhaps  to  some  other  woman  ! That — even  that 
— would  recompense  me  for  my  shame,  my  sorrow,  and  my 
devotion.  The  voices ! The  dear  sea  voices ! Silent  ^ 
long,  I JieaFfhern  again  ! ” 


SEA  VOICES. 


103 


She  puts  aside  her  sombre  monastic  hood  and  veil,  and 
the  wind  loosened  her  hair  and  sent  it  streaming  down  her 
back.  Her  hands  were  stretched  seaward,  and  holy  peace 
and  joy  shone  upon  her  face.  In  all  her  innocent  girl- 
hood she  had  never  been  so  beautiful.  All  her  life  flashed 
before  her  like  the  vividly  outlined  pictures  of  a dream, 
but  there  was  that  in  her  soul  which  made  her  glad  of 
every  part  of  her  life.  She  had  known  the  joys  of  earth 
and  also  the  joys  of  heaven,  and  there  was,  in  it  all,  noth- 
ing that  she  would  have  changed.  All  that  the  voices  had 
joromised  had  been  given  her:  love,  sin,  ha^^j  repent- 
ance,  peace-^irr""t^'^f swelled  wifTT”^llent  gratitude 
and  sacreH”  content,  for  her  life  was  full,  ripe,  and  com- 
plete. ’ ^ 

Either  the  voices,  her  thoughts,  or  the  noise  of  the  sea 
kept  from  her  ears  the  sound  of  approaching  footsteps, 
and  she  only  knew  that  she  was  not  alone  when  a man 
knelt  at  her  feet  and  kissed  the  cross  which  hung  from  the 
chain  on  her  neck. 

She  turned  her  head  and  looked  down  upon  the  prince. 
Instantly  her  face  became  even  more  radiant  than  before, 
and  she  offered  him  both  her  hands.  Each  read  in  the 
other’s  eyes  the  record  of  the  past,  and  each  knew  that 
the  other  was  still  faithful  to  the  old  love. 

After  a little  time  he  arose  and  enfolded  her  in  his  arms. 
Their  lips  met  in  one  fervent  kiss  that  sealed  and  conse- 
crated anew  the  one  love  of  both  their  lives,  and  then  her 
liead  once  more  sought  the  old,  familiar  place  on  his  shoul- 
der. 

“My  father  is  dying,”  he  said,  “and  I shall  soon  be 
emperor.  Come  with  me  and  be  empress  of  my  people, 
as  you  have  always  been  of  my  heart.” 

As  she  nestled  closer  to  him,  the  edge  of  the  cliff  crum- 
bled under  their  feet.  ^ 

With  her  head  still  pillowed  on  her  royal  lover’s  breast, 
and  the  sea  voices  still  ringing  in  her  ears,  Rita  and  the 
prince  fell  down,  down  into  the  seething,  boiling  mass  of 
green  water,  and  it  closed  over  them  forever. 


A SPRIG  OF  SWEET  BRIER. 


You  wish  to  know  why  I so  prize  and  value  this  dried 
and  faded  sprig  of  sweet  brier  ? Oh,  it  simply  grew  out 
of  a dead  woman’s  bosom,  and  caused  the  man  who  loved 
her  his  reason — and  then  his  life.  That  is  all. 

Tell  you  the  story  ? You  might  find  it  dull. 

Well,  then,  sit  here  at  my  feet,  child.  You  are  sixteen 
to-day,  dear,  and  are  fast  ripening  into  the  same  dangerous 
beauty  which  this  woman,  of  whom  I just  spoke,  so 
thoughtlessly  abused.  The  story,  since  you  know  nothing 
yet  about  the  hearts  of  men,  and  woman’s  power  over 
them,  may  do  you  good. 

Twenty  years  ago  I went  with  my  brother  to  spend  a 
summer  in  Swit2jerland.  I was  in  feeble  health,  and  he 
was  weary  with  his  work  ; for  he  was  an  artist,  whom 
the  world  was  just  beginning  to  adore.  We  both  needed 
quiet  and  isolation,  so  we  sought  it  in  a little  village 
which  was  so  difficult  of  access  that  strangers  seldom  vis- 
ited it. 

We  found  rest  and — a woman  ; the  most  beautiful  and 
accomplished  coquette  in  France.  She  had  had  thousands 
of  men  at  her  feet,  only  to  cast  them  aside,  like  idle  toys, 
whenever  it  suited  her  caprice  to  do  so. 

My  brother  had  met  her,  several  years  before,  and  had 
successfully  resisted  all  her  wiles,  so  I had  been  told. 

Repeatedly  had  she  attempted  to  make  him  love  her, 
and  repeatedly  had  she  failed.  She  felt  this  all  the  more 
keenly  because  he  was  the  first  man  who  had  ever  with- 
stood the  powerful  spell  of  her  charms.  Really  she  was  a 
most  remarkable  woman,  and  I cannot  understand  how  any 
man  could  be  with  her,  for  even  ten  minutes,  and  not  fall 
lielplessly  in  love  with  her.  In  face  and  form  she  was 
absolute  perfection,  and  besides  this,  she  had  rare  mental 
charms,  unusual  graces  of  manner,  and  bewildering  tricks 


A SPRIG  OF  SIVEE7'  BRIER.  105 

of  dress.  Altogether,  a more  brilliant  and  dazzling  woman 
never  played  havoc  with  the  hearts  of  men. 

She,  too,  so  she  said,  was  seeking  rest  and  retirement, 
and  chance  had  sent  her,  ahead  of  us,  to  the  same  retreat 
which  we  had  chosen.  She  was  unattended,  except  by  a 
single  maid ; making  her  isolation,  and  my  brother’s 
danger,  the  more  complete. 

The  moment  I saw  her  I began  trembling  for  my 
brother’s  safety. 

True,  they  had  met  before,  and  a great  many  times  at 
that,  but  that  had  been  in  the  midst  of  the  dizzy  whirl 
and  maze  of  society.  Now,  she  had  him  alone,  all  to  her- 
self, in  the  solitude  and  privacy  of  an  almost  unknown  and 
unfrequented  Swi'ss  village.  Quite  another  matter. 

He  laughed  merrily  and  kissed  me  when  I confessed  my 
fears. 

I am  already  too  much  in  love  with  you,  little  sister,” 
he  said,  '‘to  give  any  other  woman  a place  in  my  heart.” 

^‘But,”  I persisted,  “she  must  be  piqued  at  you  for 
scorning  her  charms  in  Paris  ; it  is  impossible  to  guess 
what  overpowering  spell  she  will  not  try  now.” 

“None  which  will  be  potent  enough  to  ensnare  me  ; and 
besides,  I never  have  scorned  her.” 

“You  resisted  her — that  amounts  to  the  same  thing.” 

“That  may  not  be  her  point  of  view,”  he  said,  as  he 
walked  away,  shrugging  his  shoulders  and  laughing. 

One  day  my  brother  was  out  sketching,  and  1 was  sit- 
ting beside  him,  reading,  when  the  woman  whom  I so 
much  dreaded  suddenly  appeared.  She  chatted  with  us 
for  a few  moments,  and  then  begged  me  to  leave  my  book 
and  stroll  about  with  her  while  my  brother  finished  his 
sketch.  Her  request  seemed  to  surprise  him,  but  he  con- 
trolled himself  and  looked  up  with  a merry  twinkle  in  his 
eyes. 

“ I do  not  know  that  it  will  be  wise  for  me  to  trust  my 
sister  to  your  siren  spells,”  he  said. 

She  flushed  deeply  and  his  words  seemed  to  pain  her. 

“Mademoiselle  will  be  quite  safe,”  she  answered,  some- 
what sadly,  “ if  she  has  the  unsusceptibility  of  her  talented 
brother.  If  she  does  not  share  your  distrust,  and  will  go 
with  me,  I promise  you  to  bring  her  back  safely.” 

I gave  her  my  hand  instantly,  and  was  wonderfully 
moved  by  her  embarrassment  and  emotion. 

“ I will  go  with  you,”  I said.  “My  brother  is  rude  to- 
day and  you  must  not  mind  liim.” 


io6  A SPRIG  OF  SWEET  BRIER. 

I am  sure  he  only  meant  to  be  humorous,”  she  answered, 
throwing  one  of  her  arms  about  my  waist  and  drawing  me 
away  with  her. 

When  we  were  out  of  my  brother’s  hearing,  she  began 
speaking  in  his  praise.  She  called  him  the  most  fascinat- 
ing  man  she  had  ever  known. 

Still,”  I said,  determined  to  force  the  truth  from  her, 
if  possible,  ‘‘  you  have  found  it  easy  to  withstand  him.” 

Again  her  face  flushed. 

“ Say,  rather,”  she  responded,  ^‘that  he  has  found  it  easy 
to ” 

She  paused. 

To  what  ? ” I asked. 

“ Oh,  I cannot  finish  what  I was  saying.  But  do  I need 
to— do  you  not  see  what  I mean  ? Mademoiselle,  I love 
your  brother,  and  he  despises  me  because  he  thinks  me 
heartless — only  a coquette  ! ” 

And  then  she  threw  herself  into  my  arms  and  wept  until 
her  grief  frightened  me.  I sat  down  and  held  her  against 
my  bosom,  and  stroked  her  hair  gently,  as  if  she  had  been 
a child. 

An  hour  before,  I had  hated  her.  Now  I loved  her. 
Truly,  compassion  is  the  mother  of  love. 

When  her  tears  ceased,  and  she  was  calmer,  I lifted  up 
her  face  and  kissed  her  twice,  full  upon  the  mouth. 

‘‘I  am  glad  you  kissed  my  lips,”  she  said;  “no  man’s 
lips  have  ever  touched  them.  My  cheeks,  though,  are  not 
so  innocent.” 

It  seemed  the  most  natural  thing  in  the  world  to  me 
that  she  should  love  my  brother.  He  was  handsome,  lov- 
able, talented — her  very  counterpart.  What  a splendid 
pair  they  would  make  if  he  would  only  love  her ! Love 
her  ? Why,  that  was  the  very  thing  I feared  he  might  do 
until  now,  and  I blushed  at  my  inconsistency. 

I assured  her  that  nothing  on  earth  could  make  me  so 
happy  as  to  see  her  my  brother’s  wife  ; whereupon  she 
flung  her  arms  about  me  and  covered  my  face  with  kisses. 
We  then  and  there  pledged  eternal  fidelity  to  each  other. 

After  that  I contrived  in  every  possible  way  to  bring 
them  together  ; though,  of  course,  I dared  not  openly 
champion  her  cause,  since,  at  the  outset,  I had  warned  him 
to  beware  of  her. 

Yet  there  were  countless  little  things  which  I could  do 
to  help  matters  on,  and  I took  advantage  of  every  opportu- 
nity with  the  utmost  heartiness  and  zeal. 


A SPRIG  OF  SWEET  BRIER.  107 

My  brother’s  indifference,  strange  to  say,  seemed  to  in- 
crease in  equal  measure  with  my  interest. 

Half  in  anger  and  half  in  despair  I upbraided  him,  one 
day,  for  his  coldness  to  her. 

I shall  never  forget  the  way  in  which  he  answered  me. 
Words,  tone,  manner,  all  betokened  misery  and  wretched- 
ness. 

‘‘Sister,  you  are  blind!”  he  exclaimed.  “If  you  rate 
me  for  anything,  let  it  be  for  loving  this  woman  too  much. 
Oh,  God  ! 1 am  nearly  mad  with  love  for  her,  and  so  I 
have  been  ever  since  the  moment  I first  saw  her.  Waking 
or  sleeping,  thinking  or  dreaming,  she  fills  every  moment 
of  my  life.  No  one  like  her  ever  lived  before.  Her 
womanhood,  except  that  she  has  neither  heart  nor  soul,  is 
matchless.  What  man  ever  saw  her  who  would  not  sacri- 
fice his  last  hope  of  heaven  for  a single  hour  of  her  love  ? 
I came  to  this  very  place  to  escape  even  hearing  the  mention 
of  her  name,  and  came  only  to  find  her  here  before  me.  Had 
I gone  away,  she  would  have  guessed  my  secret  and  enjoyed 
her  triumph.  So  I stayed  and  traiupled  my  miserable 
heart  under  my  feet  every  day.  When  I found  that  you 
hated  her  I was  glad,  for  that  strengthened  me  and  made 
resisting  her  all  the  easier.  Now,  even  you  have  suc- 
cumbed to  her,  and  I am  left  to  struggle  alone  ; nay,  to 
make  the  matter  the  more  hopeless,  and  the  result  more 
perilous,  I have  you  also  to  battle  against.  Why  have  you 
done  this  ? Do  you  not  know  that  she  must  eventually 
prevail,  humble  my  pride  and  strength,  and  bring  me  to 
her  feet,  only  to  crush  me  into  dust  under  her  heel,  like 
a withered  leaf?  Why  have  you  become  traitor  to  me? 
Why  do  you  insist ” 

“ Stop,”  I cried  angrily.  “You  call  me  blind  ? It  is  you 
who  are  blind.  I did  not,  truly  enough,  know  that  you 
loved  her  ; \^mX.  you  do  not  know  that  she  loves  ” 

A knife  could  not  have  pierced  him  more  deeply. 

“ My  God  ! ” he  gasped,  and  then  fell  back  into  the  chair 
behind  him  and  covered  his  face  with  his  hands. 

I fairly  enjoyed  his  suffering.  It  seemed  to  me  that  he 
deserved  it.  In  silence  I sat  and  watched  him  until  he  put 
his  hands  down  and  bade  me  go  on. 

“There  is  nothing  more  to  say,”  I answered.  “Your 
love  is  returned  by  the  woman  whom  you  have  made  its 
object,  and  she  will  marry  you  if  you  ask  her.” 

“ How  do  you  know  all  this  ?” 

“ I have  it  from  her  lips.” 


io8  A SPRIG  OF  SWEET  BRIER, 

Did  she  tell  you  unasked?” 

“ No.  She  was  stung  and  wounded  by  a sneer  from  you, 
and  while  she  was  w^eeping  her  sorrow  out  upon  my  bosom, 
I won  her  confidence  and  drew  the  story  from  her.” 

Upon  your  bosom!  ” he  repeated,  contemptuously. 
“ Why,  a month  ago  you  would  have  sooner  put  an  adder 
in  your  bosom.” 

“ I was  a fool  then.” 

He  laughed  derisively. 

‘‘And  yet  you  then  thought  me  a fool  because  I seemed 
likely  to  fall  in  love  with  this  woman.  Now,  beyond 
doubt,  you  will  think  me  a fool  if  I do  not  inform  this 
woman  that  I am  in  love  with  her.” 

“ I tell  you  I have  changed  my  mind  since  I so  foolishly 
denounced  her.” 

“You  may  change  it  again.  It  will  at  least  be  prudent 
for  me  to  wait  and  see.” 

“ My  mind  is  fixed  now,”  I answered  savagely. 

“ Parbleu  ! It  seemed  fixed  before.” 

“ Then  I had  accepted  your  characterization  of  her  ; now 
I speak  from  my  own.” 

“That,  I suppose,  is  equivalent  to  calling  me  a fool.” 

“ You  interpret  my  meaning  about  as  correctly  as  you 
judge  the  woman  whom  you  pretend  to  love.” 

The  grief  I then  saw  in  his  eyes  and  heard  in  his  voice 
will  never  leave  me  until  memory  also  goes. 

“ Pretend  ! Pretend  ! ” he  cried,  pressing  his  hands  upon 
his  brow.  “ Oh,  God  ! how  you  are  making  me  suffer  1 ” 

Still  I did  not  relent. 

“ Pretend,”  I answered,  “ seems  to  be  the  correct  word. 
If  you  love  this  woman  so  much  why  do  you  not  wed 
her  ? ” 

“ Why  do  you  so  mock  me  ? ” he  cried,  bitterly. 

“You  mock  yourself.” 

“ Do  you  wish  to  drive  me  mad  altogether  ? If  you  do 
you  have  set  about  it  in  the  right  way.” 

“ I cannot  make  you  what  you  already  are.  No  one  but 
a madman  would  be  so  unreasonable.  She  loves  you  and 
you  say  you  love  her.  If  that  is  true,  why  do  you  not 
marry  her — or  do  you  find  it  impossible  to  reconcile  any- 
thing so  prosaic  as  matrimony  with  your  fanciful  and 
poetic  notions  ? ” 

“ Prosaic  ! You  know  I would  sacrifice  everything  I 
cherish  to  call  her  wife  ! You  but ” 

He  paused. 


A SPRIG  OF  SWEET  BRIER. 


109 


“You  can  call  her  wife  without  sacrificing  anything,”  I 
remarked,  bluntly. 

He  came  over  to  my  side  and  took  me  by  the  hand. 

“Sister,”  he  began,  “ why  will  you  persist  in  torturing 
me  with  hopes ” 

I placed  one  of  his  own  hands  over  his  mouth  and 
stopped  him. 

“ Will  you  listen  to  me,  brother,  for  two  minutes  ? ” 

He  nodded  his  head. 

“ You  say  you  love  this  woman  ? ” 

“Yes.” 

“And  you  are  anxious  to  marry  her?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Assurance  of  her  love,  then,  is  all  that  you  are  waiting 
for  ? ” 

Again  he  inclined  his  head. 

“ That  makes  the  problem  an  easy  one  to  solve.  She 
has  confessed  to  me  that  she  loves  you,  and  that  her  hand 
is  yours  for  the  asking.  Now,  I can  see  no  further  obstacle. 
Offer  her  your  heart  and  hand  in  exchange  for  hers,  and 
all  is  done.” 

“ She  would  reject  me  instantly  if  I did  anything  of  the 
kind.” 

“ Nonsense  ! ” 

“ Now,  listen  to  me,”  he  said.  “ This  woman,  with  all 
her  beauty,  has  no  truth  in  her.  She  has  sent  many  a 
man  to  his  death,  and  has  broken  the  heart  of  many 
another.  Do  not  curl  your  lip  so  scornfully.  No  man 
can  meet  her  without  receiving  the  wound  incurable,  and 
you,  lacking  man’s  emotions,  can  never  know  what  it  is  to 
have  one’s  dearest  hopes  answered  with  such  a woman’s 
laughter.  As  you  said,  when  we  first  came  into  these 
mountains,  though  you  now  seem  to  have  forgotten  it,  I 
am  the  only  man  she  ever  approached  who  did  not  suc- 
cumb to  her  resistless  fascinations.  That  is  why  she  came 
here,  and  that,  also,  is  why  she  told  you  she  loved  me. 
Such  women  cannot  love.  They  are  merely  social  actresses. 
She  is  using  you  as  a decoy  to  lure  me  on  to  my  death,  for 
it  would  kill  me  to  be  refused  by  her  ; I love  her  too  well 
to  survive  rejection.” 

“You  misjudge  her.  She  loves  you — ^of  that  I am 
certain.  If ” ^ 

“ No,  no,”  he  said.  “ She  has  decqivqd  you,  as  she  has 
deceived  every  one  else.” 

“ I could  not  be  deceived  in  such  a matter,’’ 


no 


A SPRIG  OF  SWEET  BRIER. 


Could  not  ? You  were  deceived  in  me.  You  never 
once  dreamed  that  I loved  her  until  I told  you.  If  you 
could  not  read  me,  whom  you  have  known  so  long,  how 
can  you  expect  me  to  believe  that  you  read  her  any  more 
successfully  ? No,  sister,  you  are  wrong.  She  does  not 
love  me  ; if  she  did  my  heart  would  tell  me  so.’' 

Do  not  be  too  sure  of  that.  She  does  not  know  that  you 
love  her.  Hearts  may  not  speak  as  plainly  as  you  imagine.” 

“ Again  you  are  depending  upon  her  word.  If  she  did 
not  know  that  I love  her  she  would  have  gone  away  from 
here  long  ago.  She  is  determined  not  to  be  vanquished 
by  me,  and  her  departure  is  only  delayed  until  she  gains 
her  purpose  in  coming  here — my  undoing.” 

I said  no  more  to  iiim,  but  I told  her  all  that  had 
transpired,  and  my  faith  in  her  was  completely  vindicated 
by  her  tears  and  distress.  She  had  not  deceived  me  ; I 
was  fully  convinced  of  that.  She  loved  him  madly. 

The  first  few  days  which  followed  were  miserable 
enough  for  us  all,  but  we  at  length  regained  our  compos- 
ure and  made  everything  seem  as  it  had  been  before. 

She  was  most  disturbed.  No  woman  ever  felt  a man’s 
doubts  and  injustice  more  keenly. 

In  every  possible  way,  except  by  avowing  it  in  so  many 
words,  she  tried  to  show  him  how  faithfully  she  loved 
him,  but  it  availed  her  nothing.  Had  she  loved  him  less, 
she  might  have  employed  her  woman’s  art  to  better  ad- 
vantage, and  so  broken  his  unkind  reserve.  But  art  can- 
not be  exercised  where  love,  in  its  highest  sense,  exists. 

The  summer  was  fast  dwindling  and  there  was  still  no 
sign  of  his  relenting.  Nothing,  apparently,  could  make 
him  believe  in  lier. 

For  weeks  she  submitted  to  his  unworthy  doubts,  with 
the  extremest  humility  and  patience  ; and  then,  all  at 
once,  her  whole  manner  changed  and  she  became  frigidity 
itself.  It  was  the  very  reaction  which  I knew  eventually 
must  come,  unless  she  was  either  a saint  or  an  imbecile. 

As  I had  expected,  it  was  the  one  thing  necessary  to 
bring  him  to  her  feet,  and  he  sought  her  now  as  much  as 
he  had  avoided  her  before. 

She  begged  me  to  persuade  him  not  to  humiliate  him- 
self by  seeking  her  hand,  as  she  would  certainly  reject 
him  if  he  did. 

I told  him,  and  it  precipitated  exactly  the  thing  she  had 
hoped  it  would  avert  ; that  very  day  he*  asked  her  to  wed 
him. 


A SPRIG  OF  SWEET  BRIER. 


Ill 


“ You  have  waited  too  long,”  she  said.  “ I will  not  even 
now  deny  that  I love  you,  but  you  have  forfeited  my  re- 
spect. Nothing  could  induce  me  to  marry  you  now, 
though,  until  within  a week,  to  be  your  wife  was  my  dear- 
est aim  and  hope.  You  have  done  that  which  no  woman 
can  ever  forgive,  and,  though  sending  you  away  is  to 
break  my  own  heart,  I command  you  to  go  out  of  my 
presence  forever.” 

He  simply  said,  You  have  triumphed,”  and  then 
walked  quietly  away.  An  hour  later  he  had  left  the  vil- 
lage. 

When  he  was  gone,  she  went  up  into  the  mountains, 
wild  with  her  misery  and  despair. 

Night  came  and  she  did  not  return.  In  the  week  that 
followed  we  searched  for  her  everywhere,  but  she  never 
came  back. 

Deep  down  in  my  heart  I cherished  the  hope  that  she 
had  found  my  brother,  relented,  and  gone  away  with  him  ; 
but  I never  even  whispered  it  except  to  myself. 

When  there  was  no  longer  any  hope  of  finding  her,  I 
left  the  mountains,  too. 

My  brother,  also,  seemed  to  have  mysteriously  disap- 
peared. There  was  no  trace  of  him  anywhere. 

Three  years  elapsed  and  still  there  was  no  word  of  either 
of  them.  I mourned  them  as  dead. 

I again  went  to  the  little  village  in  Switzerland,  and  got 
a melancholy  pleasure  out  of  strolling  about  where  they, 
my  lost  ones,  had  been  with  me  in  the  bygone  days. 

Four  weeks  after  my  arrival  my  brother  suddenly  came. 
He  had  been  travelling  ever  since  the  moment  of  his  dis- 
missal, and  had  only  just  returned  from  his  various  wan- 
derings. 

He  was  horrified  at  the  story  of  the  disappearance  of 
the  woman  whom  he  had  so  strangely  loved  and  wronged, 
and  at  once  expressed  the  opinion  that  she  had  been  lost 
in  the  mountains.  Every  day  he  would  wander  about, 
aimlessly,  and  one  morning  he  went  away  at  sunrise. 

When  he  returned,  in  the  afternoon,  he  was  a gibbering 
maniac  ! 

In  the  front  of  his  coat  he  had  thrust  a sprig  of  sweet 
brier,  the  flowers  and  leaves  of  which  were  the  largest  and 
most  fragrant  I ever  saw.  To  this  he  addressed  all  the 
wild,  unintelligible  words  he  said.  It  was  easy  to  see  that 
he  was  hopelessly  insane,  and  I was  also  nearly  demented 
widi  grief. 


112 


A SPRIG  OF  SWEEI'  BRIER. 


At  last  he  pulled  the  sprig  of  sweet  brier  out  of  his  coat, 
and  thrusting  it  into  my  bosom  started  out  of  the  cottage 
and  signed  for  me  to  follow  him. 

I went  with  him  and  three  stout  Swiss  peasants  came 
close  behind  us. 

Every  few  minutes  he  would  stop,  bend  over  me,  kiss 
the  bit  of  sweet  brier  and  mutter  something  to  it. 

Finally,  he  took  us  down  into  a narrow  and  lonely  valley, 
which  was  overhung  on  three  sides  by  high  cliffs,  and  was 
carpeted  with  the  most  luxuriant  grass.  Under  the  tall- 
est cliff,  in  the  midst  of  the  grass,  was  a sweet  brier  bush. 
I saw  at  once  that  the  sprig  in  my  bosom,  which  you  now 
hold  in  your  hand,  was  broken  from  that  very  bush. 

I also  saw  the  frightful  thing  which  had  unseated  his 
reason.  The  grass  concealed  a fleshless  skeleton,  and  the 
jewels  and  shreds  of  cloth  which  clung  to  it  disclosed  the 
awful  fact  that  the  crumbling  bones  we  saw  were  those  of 
my  brother’s  lost  love  ! Blinded  by  her  agony  and  de- 
spair, she  had  fallen  over  the  cliff  on  that  awful  day,  and 
death  had  so  ended  her  troubles. 

The  sweet  brier  bush  had  grown  straight  out  of  the 
empty  space  which  had  once  held  her  heart,  as  if  it  had 
sprung  from  and  been  nourished  by  her  heart  itself. 


IN  VINTAGE  TIME 


Since  she  was  a wee,  toddling  babe,  Lucette  had  been  a 
worker  in  the  vineyards.  So  had  her  mother  and  her 
grandmother  before  her.  Once  their  family  had  been 
noble,  even  great ; but  one  of  those  mighty  convulsions 
which  have  so  often  shaken  France  robbed  their  greatest 
ancestor  of  everything  save  his  wife  and  children.  After 
that  they  were  peasants  ; but  a remnant  of  the  proud  old 
blood  still  ran  in  their  veins,  now  and  then  burning  in  one 
or  another  of  them  as  it  did  in  the  days  of  the  family’s 
ancient  glory.  So  it  was  with  Lucette.  From  the  days  of 
her  childhood,  when,  beside  her  mother,  the  purple  fruit 
had  been  slowly  and  wearily  stripped  from  the  vines  by  her 
little  fat  brown  hands,  she  was  never  like  the  children  of 
the  other  peasants,  and  never  like  her  own  brothers  and 
sisters. 

At  no  time  would  she  gambol,  sport,  and  frolic  with  those 
who  sought  her  for  play  or  for  companionship,  and  there 
was  ever  a flash  in  her  eyes  and  a curl  in  her  lips  which 
forbade  familiarity. 

So,  like  some  hermit  or  foundling  forest  bird,  she  grew 
up  by  herself — alone. 

Except  in  the  cold  months  she  always  lived  out  of  doors  ; 
so  her  health  was  perfect.  Despite  the  rough  life  she 
lived,  and  all  her  toiling  in  the  vineyards,  she  was  daintily 
and  exquisitely  shaped,  and  her  hands  were  as  tiny  and 
symmetrical  as  those  of  any  princess.  True,  they  were 
brown  with  the  sunshine,  and  so  were  her  arms  away  above 
her  elbows  for  that  matter  ; but  no  artist  or  sculptor  would 
ever  have  passed  them  by  unnoticed  without  paying  that 
fervent  tribute  which  is  always  the  award  of  genius  to 
elegance  and  beauty. 

Still  no  one  up  to  her  twentieth  year  had  ever  dared  tell 
her  that  she  had  unusual  beauty  and  grace.  There  was 
8 


IN  VINTAGE  TIME. 


1 14 

that  degree  of  regality  about  her  every  movement,  and 
that  cold,  quiet  firmness  in  her  voice,  which  prevented 
pretty  speeches,  even  from  her  own  family. 

‘‘  You  must  unbend,”  said  her  mother  one  day,  “ else  you 
will  never  get  a husband.” 

‘‘What  do  I want  with  a husband  ? No  man  shall  ever 
call  me  wife!”  she  cried,  her  eyes  glowing  like  the  eyes 
of  a serpent. 

“How  else  shall  you  live?”  rejoined  her  mother,  a 
coarse  woman,  in  whom  there*  was  only  plebeian  blood, 
and  who  had  only  plebeian  instincts.  “ How  shall  you 
live  without  a husband  ? Your  father  and  I cannot  keep 
you  always.” 

“ Keep  me  ! ” exclaimed  Lucette.  “ Keep  me  I When 
my  work  in  the  vineyard  is  not  enough  to  pay  you  and 
rny  father  for  the  little  I have  from  you,  tell  me  so,  and  I 
will  go  away — but  not  with  a husband.” 

After  that  she  was  let  alone  ; but  her  mother  thought 
it  extremely  unreasonable  and  ungirl-like  in  Lucette  not 
to  want  a husband.  Many  a handsome,  strapping  young 
peasant  was  madly  in  love  with  her,  and  she  might  have 
looked  even  higher  if  she  wished,  for  the  sons  of  some  of 
the  gentlefolk  were  far  from  blind  to  her  stately  charms. 
But  that  same  stateliness,  and  her  cold  face,  firm  mouth,  and 
dauntless  eyes  kept  a wide,  impassable  distance  between 
Lucette  and  her  admirers. 

Her  parents  and  sisters  made  constant  clatter  about  her 
stubbornness,  but,  save  that  once,  when  the  girl’s  angry 
eyes  seemed  to  burn  into  her  mother’s  soul,  they  were 
careful  that  none  of  their  grumbling  reached  the  ears  of 
Lucette. 

Sometimes,  when  she  was  apart  by  herself,  in  some 
shady  corner  of  the  vineyard,  where  the  fragrant  grapes 
and  their  broad,  green  leaves  hid  her  from  the  curious 
eyes,  which  otherwise  were  ever  bent  upon  her,  a warm, 
soft,  yearning  tenderness  would  rout  all  her  pride  and 
hauteur,  and  leave  her  face  radiantly  beautiful.  Rarely, 
very  rarely,  some  one  saw  her  thus  ; and  if  it  chanced  to 
be  a man,  ceaseless  tumult  came  into  his  heart. 

Strangers  passing  through  the  country  and  pausing 
among  the  vineyards,  struck  with  her  queenliness,  would 
turn  away  with  a sigh,  when,  in  answer  to  their  questions 
they  were  told  that  she  was  “ only  a common  peasant’s 
daughter.” 

One  of  them,  however,  Casaban,  a Spanish  sculptor, 


IN  VINTAGE  TIME, 


1 15 

sighed  so  deeply  that  his  heart  chords  never  again  ceased 
vibrating.  But  he  was  a great  artist,  and  came  of  a grand 
old  family  whose  pulses  throbbed  with  the  crimson  tide  of 
royalty,  his  grandfather  having  been  king.  So  Casaban’s 
pride  checked  the  passionate  words  he  would  otherwise 
have  said  to  Lucette.  He  hurried  away  from  her,  but  he 
carried  her  image  with  him,  in  his  heart  and  in  his  eyes, 
through  all  his  wanderings.  Italy,  and  even  Spain,  his 
own  beautiful  country,  failed  to  solace  him.  The  splen- 
dors of  his  home  seemed  to  mock  him,  and  the  light 
words  of  his  old  friends  and  companions,  whose  jests  and 
ribaldry  had  once  amused  him,  now  wounded  him  like 
thrusts  from  knives.  In  vain  he  locked  himself  in  his 
studio  with  his  chisels  and  marble  ; he  could  only  think 
of  the  bronze  woman  whom  he  had  met  among  the  merry 
grape-strippers  of  France. 

She  had  only  deigned  to  give  him  one  look,  and  that 
was  such  a look  as  a lion  might  give  to  a mouse.  Hoping 
to  make  her  talk,  he  had  asked  her  some  question  about  the 
vintage,  which  she  answered  briefly  and  coldly,  and  then 
turned  away,  and  walked  off,  with  firm  steps,  and  her 
round  shoulders  drawn  up  proudly — just  as  some  high- 
born queen  might  have  gone  from  her  lowest  menial.  The 
Woman  of  Bronze  he  had  called  her — she  was  so  like  the 
statue  of  some  unknown  goddess  whom  the  fates  had  en- 
dowed with  life  ; yet,  when  he  went  away,  he  left  his  heart 
in  her  keeping. 

The  months  came  and  went,  more  slowly  than  ever  be- 
fore, it  seemed  to  him  ; and  vintage  time  was  coming 
again.  The  nearer  the  anniversary  of  his  last  glimpse  at 
Lucette  approached,  the  more  Casaban’s  melancholy  deep- 
ened. 

“You  are  in  love,  my  son,”  said  his  mother  one  day,  near 
midsummer. 

But  his  pride  still  deterred  him  from  acknowledging  the 
truth,  even  to  himself,  so  he  frowned  and  swore  that  she 
was  mistaken.  Though  he  was,  in  a measure,  deceiving 
himself,  he  failed  to  deceive  her. 

“ If  you  are  not  in  love,  you  must  be  speedily  made  to 
fall  in  love,”  she  continued.  “ Your  friends,  your  art, 
everything  is  now  set  aside  to  make  way  for  a sombre  de- 
pression which  no  one  can  fathom,  though  every  one  is 
obliged  to  suffer  because  of  it.  If,  as  you  say,  love  is  not 
its  cause,  love  can  at  least  be  its  cure.  Some  sweet,  dark- 
eyed Spanish  woman,  with  her  soft  spells  and  resistless  en- 


ii6 


IN  VINTAGE  TIME. 


chantments,  can  bring  back  the  old  ring  into  your  voice, 
restore  the  smile  which  used  to  play  upon  your  mouth, 
and  dispel  the  black  cloud  which  now  encompasses  you. 
My  son,  I must  find  you  a wife.” 

Casaban  laughed,  and  merrily,  too.  His  mother’s  words 
liad  aroused  and  restored  him.  He  was  more  like  his 
natural  self  again  than  he  had  been  before  since  Lucette’s 
eyes  had  pierced  his  heart.  Pride  was  vanquished  at  last, 
and  love  was  again  triumphant,  as  it  always  is  in  the  end. 
His  mother  saw  the  change  come  over  him  and  smiled  to' 
think  how  correct  her  surmise  had  been. 

Bending  over  his  mother’s  chair  he  kissed  her. 

‘‘It  has  been  my  own  stubbornness  which  has  made  me 
so  morose,”  he  said  ; but  it  is  over  now  since  your  words 
have  shown  me  my  foolish  selfishness.  It  did,  indeed, 
need  a sweet  Spanish  woman’s  spells  to  make  me  as  I 
should  be,  and,  behold,  such  a one  has  already  woven  her 
soft  web  about  me.  You  have  completely  exorcised  my 
demon,  dearest  mother,  with  your  powerful  enchantments, 
and  I am  quite  myself  again.  You  need  not  seek  out  a 
wife  for  me  now,  for  I should  not  have  time  to  woo  her.  I 
am  going  abroad  again  next  week.” 

The  color  deepened  in  his  face  as  he  finished  speaking, 
and  looking  down  he  began  picking  at  a button  on  his 
coat.  His  mother  watched  him  intently,  her  eyes  spar- 
kling with  silent  amusement,  and  she  laughed  quietly  under 
her  breath.  She  was  silent  for  a few  minutes,  and  the 
dreaminess  in  his  eyes  and  the  warm  glow  on  his  cheeks 
told  her  that  he  had  entirely  forgotten  her  presence,  and 
that  some  other  woman  filled  his  thoughts.  When  she 
spoke  again  it  was  half-jestingly. 

“ I have  no  doubt  you  will  receive  much  benefit  from 
the  journey,”  she  said. 

Instantly  he  raised  his  eyes  and  regarded  her  curiously. 

“What  a peculiar  stress  you  lay  upon  ‘journey!’”  he 
exclaimed. 

“Your  ears  are  abnormally  acute  to-day,”  she  said,  with 
a laugh,  arising  from  her  chair.  Then  stepping  forward 
and  kissing  him  she  continued  : “ Still,  you  must  not  forget 
your  high  station,  wherever  and  to  whatever  your  journey 
may  lead  you.” 

He  understood  her  and  attempted  no  further  conceal- 
ment. 

“ A princess  would  do  no  discredit  to  the  grandson  of  a 
king,  would  she  ?”  he  asked  putting  his  arms  about  her. 


IN  VINTAGE  TIME. 


117 

No  true  woman  would  do  him  discredit,”  she  answered, 
quietly. 

For  a moment  he  was  tempted  to  tell  her  all,  but  some- 
thing— he  could  scarcely  determine  what — restrained  him  ; 
and,  kissing  her  again,  he  led  her  back  to  her  chair  and 
walked  away. 

The  next  week  he  left  Spain. 

When  he  reached  France  it  was  in  the  height  of  the 
vintage,  and  the  whole  country  was  rich  with  the  heavy 
odor  of  the  ripened  grapes,  and  full  of  the  songs  and 
laughter  of  the  grape-strippers. 

The  season  had  been  good,  and  the  vintage  was  un- 
usually rich  ; so  everybody,  save  the  disgruntled  few  who 
always  complain,  was  quite  content  and  happy.  The  fun 
and  good  humor  which  greeted  Casaban  everywhere  was 
accepted  by  him  as  an  auspicious  omen. 

How  glad  he  was  that  his  mother’s  words  had  broken 
his  foolish  pride  and  stirred  him  into  returning  to  France. 

His  heart  was  overflowing  with  rapturous  joy,  and  his 
soul  was  full  of  ecstasy.  He — Casaban — whom  all  Spain 
adored,  and  all  the  rest  of  Europe  revered  and  respected, 
was  about  staking  everything  upon  the  daughter  of  a 
common  French  peasant. 

Yet,  lowly  as  was  her  origin,  in  her  he  saw  more 
womanly  grandeur  than  he  had  ever  seen  in  woman 
before.  She  was  to  him  the  high-priestess  of  a lost  faith, 
or  the  empress  of  some  dead  world  come  back  again, 
among  mortals,  and,  Christ-like,  among  the  humblest. 

His  whole  life  had  been  lived  among  royal  and  noble 
surroundings,  and  through  it  all  he  had  never  once  been 
awed  or  embarrassed  by  the  great.  And  yet  he  was  now 
shaken  and  confused  at  the  thought  of  once  more  facing 
Lucette,  the  proud,  regal,  bronze  woman,  and  offering 
himself  at  her  feet.  He  thought  that  this  new  emotion 
was  called  into  being  by  what  was  to  him  Lucette’s  sublime 
greatness. 

Perhaps  it  was  this  ; perhaps  it  was  love.  • 

For  three  days  he  hesitated,  fearing  to  meet  the  woman 
in  whose  hands,  all  unknown  to  her,  he  had  placed  his  fate 
and  future.  He  went  daily  to  the  vineyard,  where  he 
knew  that  she  was  toiling  with  the  other  grape-strippers  ; 
still  he  avoided  her. 

One  night,  when  the  moon  was  full,  and  its  mellow 
light  softened  all  the  harsh  gray  landscape,  Casaban,  lost 
in  a fantastic  maze  of  tender  and  romantic  fancies, 


ii8 


IN  VIA^TAGE  TIME, 


wandered  by  himself  along  a little  river,  which  ran  past 
the  home  of  Lucette.  For  a time  he  walked  among  the 
shadows  which  were  cast  by  the  thick,  green  trees,  with 
only  an  occasional  glimpse  at  the  moon,  except  where  it 
was  reflected  up  into  his  eyes  by  the  smooth  surface  of 
the  sluggish  river.  Suddenly  he  advanced  upon  the  edge 
of  an  opening — a sort  of  natural  amphitheatre,  on  the 
banks  of  the  stream,  among  the  trees.  At  this  point  the 
river  widened  into  a small  shallow  pond,  flanked  on  each 
side  by  gleaming  yellow  sand. 

Casaban  paused  for  a moment,  and  as  he  did  so  he  saw 
a figure  advancing  into  the  opening  from  the  opposite 
side.  It  took  but  a single  glance  to  tell  the  handsome 
Spaniard  that  what  he  saw  was  the  stately  figure  of  Lu- 
cette. 

She  walked  slowly  into  the  amphitheatre  and  stood  by 
the  water’s  edge.  She  was  bareheaded,  and  her  loosened 
hair  hung  in  a great  black  mass  down  her  back.  Her 
drapery  was  mean  and  scanty,  but  royal  raiment  could 
have  scarcely  emphasized  her  strange,  impressive  beauty. 
Her  arms  were  bare  from  her  shoulders,  and  her  bosom 
was  only  half-hidden  by  her  rough,  loose  jacket.  Her  cold 
face  was  upturned,  and  her  eyes  were  fixed  upon  the  moon. 
Had  she  bidden  it  pause  in  its  course,  and  had  it  obeyed 
her,  Casaban  would  have  felt  no  surprise.  It  seemed  to 
him  that  such  a woman  might  control  the  universe. 

For  several  minutes,  she  stood  there,  motionless,  in  the 
yellow  sand  by  the  silent  river,  in  the  bright  moonlight, 
within  three  yards  of  the  man  who  so  madly  loved  her. 
She  seemed,  more  than  ever,  the  Woman  of  Bronze. 

“ So  Cleopatra  might  have  stood  some  night  on  the 
banks  of  the  Nile,”  thought  Casaban;  ‘'only  Cleopatra 
was  softer,  weaker,  and  less  queenly.” 

Lucette,  all  unconscious  of  Casaban’s  presence,  crossed 
her  bare  arms  over  her  brown  bosom  and  sighed.  Instantly 
the  coldness  went  out  of  her  face,  a smile  came  upon  her 
lips,  and  a soft,  tender  light  into  her  eyes.  Her  whole  per- 
sonality underwent  an  entire  change,  and  from  regal  statu- 
esqueness, she  was  transformed  and  relaxed  into  all  that  is 
indicative  of  yielding,  womanly  gentleness.  Casaban 
watched  her  in  rapt  amazement;  sooner  would  he  have 
expected  one  of  his  marble  figures,  cut  out  of  the  cold 
stone,  with  his  own  chisels,  to  soften  and  relax. 

Still  smiling,  and  with  another  sigh,  Lucette  knelt  slow- 
ly, and  leaning  forward  seemed  to  be  tracing  characters  in 


IN  VINTAGE  TIME, 


119 

the  sand  with  her  fingers.  Then  she  again  looked  at  the 
moon,  kissed  her  fingers  to  it,  sprang  up  and  darted  away, 
leaving  a melodious  ripple  of  girlish  laugfiter  ringing  in 
the  air  after  she  had  gone. 

For  a long  time  after  her  departure,  Casaban  stood  as  if 
in  a stupor.  He  could  not  believe  his  senses,  and  thought 
at  last  that  he  must  have  been  dreaming.  That  haughty 
woman  could  never  so  unbend  ! Then  he  hastened  for- 
ward to  the  spot  where  she  had  knelt,  and  looked  down  to 
see  if  she  really  liad  traced  characters  in  the  sand.  He 
read  his  own  name,  “ Casaban,”  and  he  staggered  with  a 
resistless  and  incomprehensible  dizziness. 

What  a strange  woman  she  was — more  than  ever  a mar- 
vel to  him  ; and  still  he  felt  that  he  must  hold  some  place 
in  her  thoughts,  else  she  would  not  have  written  his  name 
in  the  sand.  Could  it  be  that  she  loved  him  ? He  dared 
not  hope  that.  And  then — her  kneeling  and  kissing  her 
hands  to  the  moon  ; was  that  pure  accident,  or  was  it  a 
part  of  her  religion?  He  thought  that  so  powerful  and 
magnificent  a creature  must  have  some  religion  unlike  that 
of  other  mortals. 

Throughout  that  night  his  head  was  full  of  Lucette  and 
her  strange  caprice.  A thorough  artist,  he  set  about  weav- 
ing a curious  labyrinth  of  capricious  whims  and  fancies, 
centring  them  all  upon  Lucette  and  her  varying  moods, 
and  so  completely  were  the  two  blended  together  that  it 
would  be  difficult  to  decide  whether  the  part  which  she 
played  in  his  dreams  was  more  fantastic  and  irrational  than 
that  which  she  played  in  his  waking  moments. 

The  next  day  they  met  in  the  vineyard,  and  she  was  once 
more  the  cold,  haughty  Woman  of  Bronze.  Gazing  upon 
her  face  then,  it  seemed  impossible  to  Casaban  that  she 
had  ever  smiled,  or  that  she  ever  could  smile. 

Again  and  again  they  met,  her  cold  face  never  once  re- 
laxing into  the  merest  semblance  of  a smile  ; and  her  voice 
was  always  ice  itself. 

At  last,  when  he  could  restrain  himself  no  longer,  he  told 
her  that  he  had  loved  her  since  the  last  vintage  time,  and 
that  he  had  come  back  to  France  to  ask  her  to  become  his 
wife. 

He  watched  her  all  the  while  he  was  speaking,  but 
there  was  no  sign  in  her  face  to  betoken  that  she  was  in 
any  way  moved  by  what  he  had  said. 

“You  do  yourself  an  injustice,  or  else  you  intend  me 
one,”  she  said,  in  that  same  icy,  pitiless  voice;  and  in 


120 


IN  VINTAGE  TIME, 


either  case  I can  only  refuse  what  you  propose.  No  man 
in  your  station  should  so  far  humble  and  forget  himself 
as  to  offer  honorable  love  to  a peasant’s  daughter,  and 
there  is  at  least  one  peasant’s  daughter  who  will  not 
suffer  herself  to  be  made  a toy  and  wanton  of  even  a 
royal  lover.  Go  back  to  your  family,  your  friends  and 
your  art,  and  leave  me  wliere  I am  and  what  I am — a 
peasant’s  daughter  and  a grape-stripper.” 

‘‘No  other  woman  shall  ever  be  my  wife,  I swear,”  he 
exclaimed  impetuously.  “ I offer  you  honorable  marriage 
and  the  first  love  of  my  life.  Family,  art,  everything 
should  be  put  aside  for  you,  were  it  necessary,  but  it  is 
not.  My  family  will  receive  my  wife  without  criticism,  be 
she  peasant  or  princess,  and  you  will  do  my  race  credit. 
You  will  be  the  inspiration  which  will  make  me  glorify  my 
art,  if  glorified  by  me  it  ever  is.  Once  more  I ask  you  to 
be  my  wife.” 

“And  once  more  must  I decline  the  honor  you  offer  me. 
I do  not  forget  my  lowliness  now,  and  neither  will  you 
forget  it  in  the  days  to  come — when  the  mention  of  it 
would  grate  harshly  upon  my  ears.  Then,  too,  a woman 
should  love  the  man  whose  name  and  hand  she  accepts.” 

“ You  care  nothing  for  me,  then  ? ” 

“ How  strangely  you  ask  that  question.  I do  not  under- 
stand you.” 

“ I saw  you  write  my  name  in  the  sand  one  night;  and  it 
made  me  hope  that  you  at  least  sometimes  thought  of  me.” 

For  a moment  her  face  softened  and  her  eyes  glistened 
more  kindly.  But  she  soon  controlled  herself  and  an- 
swered him  as  coldly  as  ever. 

“A  woman  writes  the  name  of  the  man  she  loves  in  her 
heart — not  in  the  treacherous  and  ever-shifting  sand.” 

“You  are  willing,  then,  to  blight  my  life  and  blast  my 
hopes,”  he  cried.  “ Oh,  God  ! If  I could  only  move  you 
to  compassion.” 

She  stopped  and  faced  him. 

“ If  you  are  really  so  much  in  earnest,”  she  said,  “lower 
yourself  to  my  level.  Put  off  your  gentleman’s  dress  for 
the  peasant’s  blouse.  Toil  in  the  vineyard,  as  I do,  and 
when  the  vintage  is  done,  if  you  are  still  faithful,  I will  be 
your  wife.  That  will  make  me  safe  ; no  one  can  ever  then 
taunt  the  wife  with  doing  that  which  the  husband  has  not 
also  done.” 

“ I will  do  it,”  he  said,  kneeling  at  her  feet  and  kissing 
her  hand  as  if  she  were  some  great  lady. 


IN  VINTAGE  TIME. 


I2I 


He  kept  his  word. 

All  through  the  vintage,  he  worked  as  if  he  had  never 
known  any  other  sphere  in  life.  Lucette  never  gave  him 
one  smile  or  kiss  through  all  his  long  period  of  probation, 
and  the  brave  Casaban  never  once  murmured  against  her 
coldness,  or  the  tasks  which  she  had  imposed. 

One  day,  they  came  to  her  with  dreadful  news. 

A vicious  horse  liad  bitten  Casaban  in  the  throat,  and 
he  was  dying.  With  her  face  stamped  with  pain  and 
anguish,  she  sought  him.  His  eyes  brightened  as  she 
flung  herself  on  her  knees,  beside  him,  and  took  his  head 
upon  her  bosom. 

‘‘You  love  me  ? he  whispered. 

“ Yes  ! ” she  cried  ; “ and  yet  I have  sacrificed  your  life  ! 

“ I die  happy,”  he  said,  with  a smile. 

The  peasants,  awed  and.  hushed,  stood  around  them  with 
bare  heads.  They  saw  the  color  of  de^th  come  into  Casa- 
ban’s  face,  but  still  his  head  rested  upon  Lucette’s  bosom. 

After  a little  while,  her  father  bent  over  her,  but  he  re- 
coiled with  a cry  of  horror. 

The  other  peasants  then  pressed  forward  and  retreated, 
shuddering,  for  they  saw  a dead  woman  with  her  dead 
lover  clasped  in  her  arms. 


LAMIA 


Deep  in  the  heart  of  an  African  jungle,  I was  the 
prisoner  of  a wounded  lion. 

We  met  in  an  unhappy  hour. 

With  a small  party  of  natives,  I was  hunting  hippo- 
potami. The  day  was  sultry,  and  wearying  of  the  sport,  I 
wandered  away  by  myself. 

I had  but  one  round  of  ammunition  left,  and  that  was  in 
my  rifle. 

On,  on  I walked,  and  was  soon  a mile  from  my  attend- 
ants. 

Then  I met  the  lion. 

He  stood,  lengthwise,  across  my  path.  I raised  my  rifle, 
without  being  perceived,  and  tried  to  plant  the  load  under 
the  creature’s  shoulder,  in  his  heart. 

But  I was  nervous,  and  raised  the  muzzle  of  my  weapon 
as  I fired.  The  bullet  struck  the  shoulder-bone  and 
glanced.  The  wound  was  not  disabling,  but  merely  ag- 
gravating. 

With  a savage  roar  of  rage  and  pain  the  lion  sprang 
toward  me. 

I dropped  my  useless  rifle,  and  got  into  a tree  in  time 
to  escape  the  teeth  and  claws  of  the  maddened  brute. 

He  made  frantic  efforts  to  reach  me,  and,  failing,  stood 
under  the  tree,  glaring  at  me  with  his  fierce  yellow  eyes, 
and  growling  out  the  vengeance  which  he  would  visit  upon 
me — when  I came  down. 

The  prospect  was  dismal. 

Far  away  to  the  north  I could  hear  my  attendants  firing, 
at  intervals,  to  guide  me  to  them.  They  heard  my  rifle 
when  I shot  at  the  lion,  and  supposed  that  it  was  a signal 
that  I had  lost  my  way. 

Alas  ! I could  not  answer  them.  My  last  bit  of  powder 
I had  used  in  making  an  enemy  of  the  lion. 


LAMIA, 


123 


Becoming  alarmed  at  hearing  no  second  shot  from  me, 
my  attendants  were  scattering.  I could  hear  them  firing, 
here  and  there  until  at  last  they  had  completely  sur- 
rounded me. 

Then  they  began  closing  in.  I judged,  by  their  shooting, 
that  they  would  meet  not  far  from  the  tree  where  I was 
the  prisoner  of  the  lion. 

Joy ! Though  I had  been  a soldier  for  ten  years, 
musketry  had  never  made  such  sweet  music  for  me 
before. 

Nearer  and  nearer  they  approached,  and  I became  more 
and  more  hopeful.  Then  they  met,  less  than  a fourth  of 
a mile  away.  They  had  missed  me  ! 

I could  hear  their  voices  plainly,  though  I could  not 
distinguish  their  words.  They  were  greatly  excited,  and 
so  was  I. 

Some  peculiarity  of  the  climate  had  weakened  my  throat, 
and  my  once  deep,  full  voice  had,  within  a few  days,  de- 
generated into  a squeak.  Though  I could  hear  them  so 
plainly  I knew  perfectly  well  that  my  voice  would  not 
reach  their  ears  unless  there  was  entire  silence  in  the 
jungle. 

My  only  hope  was  that  the  men  might  again  separate 
and  make  another  effort  to  find  me.  Then,  being  silent 
themselves,  they  might  hear  me  if  I called. 

Presently  their  voices  stopped  and  they  began  beating 
the  jungle.  I again  became  hopeful. 

One  of  the  blacks  came  so  near  me  that  I could  hear  the 
canes  and  reeds  crunch  under  his  heels. 

Now  was  my  time. 

I concentrated  all  my  power  for  one  terrific  yell.  I must 
make  myself  heard  then  or  not  at  all.  Opening  my  mouth  I 
filled  my  lungs  and  tried  to  empty  them,  instantly,  in  one 
wild  cry. 

Horror  ! 

I made  no  audible  sound  ! 

Still  worse,  I had  strained  my  sensitive  throat  too  much 
and  had  burst  a blood-vessel. 

My  throat  filled  with  blood  so  fast  that  I was  strangling. 
I could  not  breathe.  It  was  just  the  same  whether  my  eyes 
were  open  or  closed — there  was  only  blackness  before  me. 
I could  see  nothing.  There  were  strange  sounds  in  my 
ears,  and  sharp  pains  through  my  head.  My  weakening 
hands  were  loosening  their  hold  upon  the  tree. 

Then  I fell. 


124 


LAMIA, 


I lived  a hundred  lives  in  the  brief  interval  between  fall- 
ing from  the  limb  which  I was  on  and  lodging  lower  down 
in  the  tree. 

My  whole  life  passed  before  me  and  I expected  that  it 
would  end  in  the  lion’s  jaws.  His  fetid  breath  was  in  my 
nostrils,  and  it  sickened  me  while  it  revived  me. 

The  blood  was  still  streaming  from  my  mouth,  and  when 
I could  see  again,  something  awaited  my  eyes,  which,  for 
the  first  time  in  my  life,  made  me  tremble. 

Directly  under  me,  and  scarcely  two  yards  away,  sat  the 
lion.  His  awful  mouth  was  open  and  he  was  lapping  up 
the  blood  as  it  ran  from  my  throat  1 

He  was  a man  eater ! He  had  tasted  human  blood  before, 
and  I well  knew  my  fate  in  case  I fell  from  the  tree. 

His  eyes  blazed  like  the  lurid  light  of  a furnace,  and 
they  seemed  to  have  deprived  me  of  the  power  of  motion. 

I could  not  stir. 

The  blacks  were  still  beating  the  jungle,  and  were  going 
further  away  from  me  every  instant. 

My  breast  heaved  with  a deep  and  involuntary  sigh. 
The  movement  tightened  the  relaxed  muscles  in  my  throat, 
and,  strangely  enough,  closed  the  ruptured  vein.  The 
blood  stopped. 

The  lion  licked  his  chops,  in  the  expectancy  that  it 
would  start  again,  and  continue  to  gratify  his  sinister 
thirst. 

An  inexplicable  thrill  of  hope  went  through  me,  though 
my  attendants  had  passed  beyond  hearing,  and  I was 
within  springing  distance  of  a wounded  and  bloodthirsty 
lion. 

He  was  moving  about  uneasily.  The  pain  in  his  shoul- 
der was  forgotten,  while  he  was  drinking  my  blood — it 
had  returned  now,  and  so  had  his  rage. 

There  was  a convulsive  movement  of  his  claws,  and  his 
mane  was  rising.  He  was  about  springing  ! 

Summoning  ail  my  strength,  I half  leaped,  and  half 
climbed,  into  the  branches  above  me,  just  as  the  lion 
hurled  himself  forward. 

Baffled  again,  and  furious  with  the  fresh  pain  which  his 
unsuccessful  jump  cost  him,  he  made  the  jungle  ring  with 
his  roaring. 

If  my  men  would  only  hear  him,  guess  the  truth,  and 
come  to  my  rescue!  In  two  more  hours,  night  would 
come,  and  then  my  black  attendants  would  give  up  the 
search. 


LAMIA, 


125 


I looked  down  at  the  lion,  and  wondered  whether  he  or 
I would  stand  hunger  the  longest. 

What  was  it  I saw  moving  deliberately  through  the  jun- 
gle ? Was  it  a human  being  or  some  monster  even  more 
ferocious  than  the  lion  ? 

It  was  coming  toward  me,  and  it  was  heavily  draped  in 
gauzy  black. 

As  it  came  nearer,  the  outlines  of  the  form  showed  me 
that  it  was  a woman. 

“ Stop  ! ” I shouted,  “ There’s  a lion,  a man-eater  at  the 
foot  of  this  tree.” 

My  voice  had  recovered  all  its  former  roundness  and 
strength ! It  rang  out  so  loud  and  clear  that  it  startled 
me.  ' 

The  woman  made  no  answer,  but  still  moved  forward. 

At  the  sound  of  my  voice,  the  lion  lifted  his  head  and 
sniffed  the  air,  as  if  he  had  understood  my  words.  Though 
he  looked  straight  at  the  advancing  woman,  he  gave  no  sign 
that  he  saw  her,  but  lay  down  under  the  tree  and,  dog- 
like, rested  his  nose  upon  his  paws. 

I was  astounded. 

Straight  on  the  woman  came,  and  her  loose,  floating  gar- 
ments seemed  to  brush  the  lion,  in  the  face,  as  she  passed 
him.  . 

Still  he  did  not  move,  but  blinked  his  great  yellow  eyes 
sleeepily. 

The  woman  was  completely  covered  wdth  the  sombre, 
gauzy  vail. 

Only  her  eyes  were  visible.  They  were  of  a phosphores- 
cent, sapphirine  blue,  and  they  varied,  constantly,  from  a 
soft,  stary  radiance  to  a malicious,  snake-like  glitter. 

She  was  watching  me,  the  moment  she  came  in  sight, 
and  her  eyes  were  still  fixed  upon  me,  when  she  paused 
under  the  tree,  and  as  near  to  me  as  she  could  get  without 
climbing  up. 

“ Who  and  what  are  you  ? ” I asked,  and  why  are  you 
in  such  a place  as  this  ?” 

“ I am  Lamia,”  she  said. 

Her  voice  was  as  clear  as  a flute,  and  it  seemed  to  ring 
after  she  ceased  speaking,  like  a piece  of  steel. 

‘‘  Lamia  ? ” 

‘‘Yes  ; I am  the  first  woman.  The  first  mother.  Adam’s 
first  wife  ; of  whom  he  only  begat  devils.  It  was  m)^ 
daughter,  by  Eblis,  whom  Cain  married  in  the  Land  of 
Nod. 


126 


LAMIA. 


God  was  wise,  and  He  made  me  all  woman,  all  love. 
Adam  hated  me  because  I loved  the  sunshine,  which  was 
warm  and  yellow,  like  my  hair.  He  wanted,  always,  to 
worship  our  Creator — and  I to  bask  in  the  joys  of  the  life 
which  our  Creator  gave  us.  I got  only  cold  words  in  an- 
swer to  my  love,  and  frowns  for  all  my  kisses. 

‘‘  So  we  were  sundered.  God  let  us  part.  Eve  came  to 
Adam,  made,  to  solace  him,  and  to  please  his  conceit,  of 
his  own  bone  and  flesh.  How  wise  he  was  ! Then  came  niy 
vengeance.  Full  of  hate,  I fled  to  Eblis  and  we  have 
warred  against  the  race  of  Adam  ever  since.  A woman 
best  can  cast  a woman  down.  I plucked  the  fruit  which 
Eblis  gave  to  Eve.  I planned  the  arts  by  which  he  won 
her.  She  was  but  a woman — so  she  fell.  I caused  the 
curse  to  fall  upon  the  twain  made  one — Adam,  the  per- 
fect, and  Eve,  his  flesh.  High  was  my  glee  when  forth 
Paradise  the  angel’s  flame  sword  drove  them. 

Their  seed  had  Adam’s  form,  and  souls  from  heaven. 
To  make  the  work  complete  I gave  them  demon  hearts  ! 
So  sin  came  into  the  world.  But  answer  woman’s  love 
with  scorn  and  hate — sin  and  vengeance  always  follow. 

My  vengeance  has  been  manifold  and  vast.  Cain 
spilled  his  brother’s  blood,  because  my  urgings  made 
him,  and  all  who  come  from  him  have  worn  the  scarlet 
shame. 

‘‘Since  Adam  denied  me  love,  I have  compelled  it, 
countless  times,  from  those  who  have  his  shape. 

“ My  smiles  and  spells  beguile  young  men,  and  when 
one  loves  me,  they  soon  find  him  dead,  with  one  of  my 
yellow  hairs  twined  tightly  around  his  heart.  So  Lamia 
loves  the  world  ! 

“Golden  hair  is  ever  my  gift,  and  those  who  wear  it  do 
my  work.  My  soul,  forbidden  heaven,  continually  inhabits 
the  frame  of  such  a woman — and  in  it  wreaks  woe  and 
sorrow.” 

I thought  her  mad — some  stricken  lunatic. 

She  bowed  her  head  as  she  stopped,  and  was  moving 
away. 

“You  have  not  told  me,”  I said,  “why  you  are  in  this 
jungle.” 

She  paused. 

“ I sorrow  for  Him  who  suffered  death  for  the  race  I 
hate.  It  is  Flis  natal  night.” 

Sure  enough — it  was  Christmas  eve. 

Again  she  bowed  her  head. 


LAMIA, 


127 


I was  more  moved,  all  along,  by  the  music  of  her  voice 
than  by  her  strange  narration. 

She  was  moving  slowly  away  once  more. 

Tell  me,”  I said,  determined  to  make  her  speak  again, 
‘‘is  there  nothing  which  can  assuage  your  awful  hate,  and 
end  your  course  of  vengeance  ?” 

“ Yes ! ” 

The  word  sounded  like  the  hiss  of  molten  iron,  when  it 
meets  water. 

“ Yes  ! When  I meet  a man  of  Adam's  race  who  wins  my 
love.  Then  peace  will  come  to  my  soul,  and  even  Lamia 
will  find  rest  in  heaven.  Ha!  ha!  ha!” 

Compared  with  her  laugh  the  roaring  of  the  wounded 
lion  had  been  music.  It  removed  my  last  doubt.  The 
woman  was  a demon. 

Then  I offered  up  my  first  prayer  in  ten  years.  I begged 
God  never  to  let  nrfe  hear  that  awful  laugh  again. 

As  I said  “amen”  there  was  a crash  in  the  canes  and 
brakes.  Some  one  else  was  coming  through  the  jungle. 
Eagerly  I looked  in  the  direction  of  the  sound.  Any  one, 
anything,  would  be  welcome  so  long  as  the  dreadful  Lamia 
did  not  return. 

I would  rather  even  climb  down  and  embrace  the  lion 
than  meet  her  again. 

1 looked  down. 

The  lion  was  gone  ! 

Was  it  all  a dream,  a vision — the  wounded  lion  and  the 
vengeful  ghoulish  spirit  ? No  ! I could  still  hear  that 
fiendish,  hellish  laugh. 

The  noise  in  the  jungle  was  made  by  my  men.  They 
had  found  me  at  last  How  glad  I was  to  see  those  dusky, 
grinning  Africans!  Soon  they  were  chattering  like  apes, 
telling  me  how  persistently  they  had  searched  for  me. 

There  was  a pool  of  blood  under  the  tree  where  the  lion 
had  lain,  there  was  a trail  of  blood  leading  to  the  sluggish 
river.  We  followed  it,  found  the  weakened  brute  and 
killed  him. 

That  much  was  reality.  I w^as  glad.  It  convinced  me 
that  Lamia  had  been  with  me.  My  faith  in  the  supernal, 
and  in  God,  shaken  for  ten  years,  was  restored  again.  I 
entered  the  jungle  a skeptic  ; I left  it  a believer. 

Six  weeks  later  I was  out  of  Africa,  but  I did  not  get 
back  to  France  until  the  middle  of  the  next  December. 

Three  days  later  I was  once  more  at  Rouen,  my  birth- 
place and  the  home  of  my  family. 


128 


LAMIA. 


My  father  had  died  during  my  absence,  and  my  two  sis- 
ters were  living  with  our  widowed  mother. 

As  even  the  merest  recollection  of  what  had  occurred  to 
me  in  the  African  jungle,  gave  me  the  shivers,  I forebore 
mentioning  it  to  anyone. 

One  day,  just  before  Christmas,  I met,  in  the  street,  the 
most  beautiful  woman  I ever  saw.  Her  complexion  was 
of  lily  fairness,  except  a dainty  rose-flush,  on  each  cheek. 
Her  eyes  were  a deep  blue,  and  her  hair — in  every  sense 
her  crowning  glory — was  as  yellow  as  the  sunshine. 

“Lamia’s  gift,”  I said,  and  shuddered.  It  was  the  first 
time  her  dreadful  name  had  crossed  my  lips,  since  I left 
the  Dark  Continent. 

The  woman  glanced  at  me  carelessly,  while  I stood  still 
in  the  street  and  watched  her  out  of  sight. 

In  a day  or  two,  we  met  again,  ar^l  something  in  my 
face  or  manner  drew  a smile  from  her. 

St.  Denis!  how  lovely  she  was!  Only  the  thought  of 
Lamia  kept  me  from  finding  her  out.  I feared  that  de- 
mons might  be  lurking  in  that  wonderful  golden  hair,  and 
I found  it  impossible  to  rid  myself  of  the  notion. 

The  day  before  Christmas,  I went  with  my  sisters  to 
hang  evergreens  in  the  little  church  where,  for  two  cen- 
turies, our  ancestors  had  worshipped. 

Our  work  was  about  half  done,  when  the  woman  with 
the  yellow  hair  came  in.  ^ 

I was  splitting  a board,  with  a small  ax,  for  those  who 
were  putting  up  decorations,  and  the  sharp  blade  was  de- 
scending when  I saw  the  woman. 

Instantly  I forgot  what  I was  doing. 

Thud  ! went  the  ax,  half  way  through  my  left  hand. 

My  sisters  screamed,  and  everybody  else  stood  still  and 
looked — everybody  but  the  woman  whose  coming  had 
caused  the  accident. 

She  instantly  stripped  a silken  scarf  off  her  neck,  tore  it 
in  shreds,  and  bound  up  my  mangled  hand  with  the  deft- 
ness of  a surgeon. 

“ Monsieur  must  go  home,  now,”  she  said,  “ and  let  some 
one  more  skilful  than  I do  the  rest.” 

“No  one  could  be  more  skilful,”  I declared. 

She  bowed  low  and  smiled. 

“ Monsieur  is  very  gallant  and  kind.  I fear  that  it  was 
I who  caused  the  unfortunate  accident.” 

“Oh,  no,  it  was  my  own  carelessness.  My  eyes  were 
wandering  about  too  much.” 


LAMIA. 


129 


Again  that  bewitching  smile.  How  strangely  it  moved 
me. 

She  stepped  forward  again  to  examine  my  bandaged  hand. 

Blood  on  the  Christmas  greens,”  she  whispered.  “ Is 
it  ominous  of  anything  ? ” 

‘Ht  can  only  bring  good,”  I answered,  since  it  came 
from  you.” 

The  next  day,  chance  brought  us  together  in  the  church 
door.  I asked  her  to  accept  a seat  in  the  family  pew,  and 
she  consented.  We  sat  together. 

After  that  we  met  often.  My  mother  and  sisters  found 
her  charming,  and  she  often  dined  or  supped  with  us. 

One  night  in  January,  I declared  my  love  and  asked  her 
to  marry  me. 

She  instantly  became  as  white  and  cold  as  marble.  In  a 
moment,  though,  she  was  rosy  with  blushes,  and  laying 
her  head  on  my  shoulder,  she  wept. 

I am  yours,”  she  said,  softly. 

When  she  again  raised  her  eyes,  there  was  a strange, 
starry  radiance  in  them.  Where  had  I seen  it  before  ? I 
could  not  tell. 

In  a month  we  were  married. 

When  we  stood  before  the  altar,  and  the  marriage  ser- 
vice was  being  read,  her  agitation  was  startling  and  un- 
accountable. 

One  moment  her  hand  was  ice  and  the  next  moment 
fire  ; and  the  alternations  were  as  swift  as  lightning. 

But  for  her  vail,  others  must  have  seen  how  strangely 
she  was  moved. 

My  mother  started  back  as  she  touched  her  new  daugh- 
ter’s hand. 

“You  are  ill,  child,”  she  exclaimed. 

“No,”  cried  my  wife,  ^‘I  was  never  so  well  and  happy 
before  in  my  life.” 

The  year  which  followed  was  bliss  itself.  I never  had 
dreamed  that  any  woman  could  be  so  intensely  happy. 

Song  and  sunshine  filled  every  hour.  There  was  never 
a moment  of  pain. 

Christmas  Eve  came  again.  We  sat  up  until  after  mid- 
night, and  I never  before  heard  woman  sing  as  she  sang 
then.  It  seemed  to  me  like  the  passionate,  joyous  out- 
burst of  a weary  soul,  after  years  of  pain  and  darkness. 

The  next  day  she  said  : 

“ Stay  home  to-day,  and  do  not  go  to  church.  I can- 
not go  with  you,  and  I beg  not  to  be  left  alone.” 

9 


130 


LAMIA, 


‘^Certainly  ; as  you  wish.” 

We  had  not  been  an  hour  apart  since  our  marriage. 
Why  should  there  be  a first  time  ? 

Toward  evening,  she  seemed  pale,  and  trembled. 

‘‘  Are  you  ill ! ” I asked. 

‘‘  Mortally  so.” 

Horrified,  I sprang  to  my  feet. 

“ Stop,”  she  said,  “you  can  do  nothing.  Sit  down  and 
hold  me  in  your  arms.” 

I obeyed  her. 

“Husband,”  she  said,  “I  have  something  to  tell  you, 
and  I hope — nay,  I am  sure — that  your  love  is  equal  to  it.” 

“Rely  on  that,”  I said. 

She  kissed  me  and  then  continued  : 

“ Your  love  has  saved  a lost  soul.  I am  Lamia — the  first 
woman.” 

Thinking  it  merely  some  morbid  fancy,  caused  by  her 
illness,  I smiled. 

“Nay,  do  not  smile.  I speak  the  truth,  and  I will  give 
you  proof.  I am,  indeed.  Lamia  ; she  who  came  to  you  in 
the  African  jungle  when  a wounded  lion  was  thirsting  for 
more  of  your  blood.” 

I was  amazed.  I had  never  told  any  one  of  that  ! She 
must  be  Lamia ! 

“ God  closed  the  doors  of  Heaven  on  me  until  I should 
love  and  wed  one  of  Adam’s  race.  Each  generation,  since 
the  world  began,  my  youth  has  been  renewed,  and  I have 
resumed  my  work  of  vengeance.  Adam  taught  my  heart 
to  hate  ; you  taught  it  to  love.  You  opened  the  doors  of 
love  and  of  Heaven  at  the  same  time.  Lamia’s  vengeance 
ended  when  she  became  your  wife.  This  night  1 die,  but 
my  soul  is  safe,  and  I enter  Paradise.  Look  at  the  clock. 
In  an  hour  more  it  will  be  midnight,  and  tl^en  you  will 
hold  only  Lamia’s  lifeless  form  ; her  soul  will  be  in  Heaven, 
near  the  gates,  awaiting  yours.” 

I clasped  her  more  closely,  but  in  vain.  Momentarily,  I 
could  see  her  weaken. 

The  clock  struck  twelve.  She  was  gone  ! 

A year  has  passed  since  then — a year  of  sadness  and  soli- 
tude. It  is  Christmas  night  once  more,  and  the  hour  of  mid- 
night approaches.  Something  tells  me  I am  going  to  her. 

Everything  grows  dim. 

The  clock  strikes  twelve. 

I hear  her  voice  ! 

“ Lamia  ! I come  ! ’* 


THE  LAST  CHORD 


The  sharp,  keen,  frosty  air  swept  down  from  the  Apen- 
nines and  snapped  like  a wolf  or  an  angry  cur  at  the  scanty- 
covered  ankles  of  the  poor. 

It  was  nightfall — that  coldest  part  of  the  winter  day,  in 
Tuscany. 

An  hour  before  the  red  sunlight  kept  the  people  warm 
and  merry,  and  in  another  hour  they  would  have  forgotten 
both  the  sunlight  and  the  cold,  and  would  be  merry  again 
of  their  own  sunshiny  hearts. 

Florence  is  so  old,  and  yet  so  tender  and  so  beautiful, 
that  it  is  impossible  to  be  long  miserable  there,  if  in  one’s 
soul  there  be  any  of  the  artist  or  the  poet. 

The  hour  following  the  gloaming  passed  swiftly,  and 
darkness  came  quickly  on  in  its  wake — darkness,  but  not 
silence. 

High  aloft  in  the  dim  majesty  of  the  wdiite  winter  star- 
light,  gleamed  the  wondrous  needle  of  the  Campanile  ; 
while  below  the  Duomo  stood  in  silent  grandeur,  with  the 
songs  and  laughter  of  the  people  ringing  and  buffeting 
against  its  great  sides. 

From  out  of  one  of  the  groups,  merry  with  its  song  and 
laughter,  tottered  old  Mariuccia,  with  her  mandolin.  As 
slie  advanced  slowly  along  the  piazza  the  people  noticed 
that  she  seemed  suddenly  to  have  grown  very  miicli  older. 
Her  old  bony  fingers  twitched  nervously,  the  corners  of  her 
mouth  drew  up  and  down,  and  in  her  eyes  there  was  a glare 
which  seemed  like  the  glare  of  death. 

Slowly  she  wended  her  way  along,  and  then,  pausing 
under  one  of  the  brightest  lights,  she  glanced  curiously 
about  her  and  seated  herself  on  the  cold  pavement. 

She  had  done  this  same  thing  many  hundred  times  be- 
fore, but  now%  somehow,  she  was  watched  tvith  more  awe 
and  respect  than  ever  before  ; and,  though  she  gave  those 


13-  the  LAS'E  chord.  ' 

who  listened  less  music  than  commonly,  her  motley  audi- 
ence was  in  some  strange  way  moved  to  give  her  more 
coin  for  it. 

Poor  Mariuccia!  Hers  had  been  a sad  but  not  an  un- 
common life  ; still,  as  they  watched  her  there  in  the  cold 
starlight,  and  by  aid  of  the  smoking,  flickering  lamps,  the 
people  wondered  that  her  sorrow  had  not  killed  her  long 
ago. 

All  at  once  it  seemed  to  them  that  she  had  borne  it  all 
so  bravely. 

When  she  was  thirty  she  was  a singer  in  one  of  the 
theatres  in  Rome,  and  the  great  masters  counted  hers 
among  the  marvellous  voices. 

She  sang  on,  and  on,  until  Beppo,  once  her  little  lover 
and  playmate  in  the  old  days  in  Florence,  came  down  and 
married  her.  Together  they  went  back  to  Florence. 

For  a few  years  life  ran  on  smoothly  with  them,  and 
then  Beppo  died  of  a fever.  In  a few  years  more,  their 
daughter,  who  had  grown  into  womanhood,  left  Florence, 
without  giving  the  old  mother  any  word  as  to  where  she 
was  going,  or  wdtli  whom  she  had  gone. 

When  she  came  back  she  bore  a helpless,  and  probably 
a nameless,  child  in  her  arms  ; and  she  died  before  she 
could  tell  her  friends  with  whom  she  had  gone,  a year 
before. 

After  that  life  was  very  hard  for  old  Mariuccia.  At  last 
her  little  store  of  money  gave  out,  and  then,  to  keep  food 
in  her  mouth  and  in  that  of  the  little  granddaugluer,  she 
had  to  sing — not  in  the  theatres,  as  she  had  done  in  Rome, 
but  in  the  streets,  for  the  little  coin  it  brought  her. 

When  the  child  was  seven  years  old,  she  suddenly  be- 
came ill  ; and  so  strangely,  too,  that  no  physician  in  Flor- 
ence was  able  to  discover  with  what  disease  she  was 
afflicted.  Their  utmost  skill  was  baffled.  They  looked  at 
her  gravely,  and  shook  their  heads  in  helplessness. 

She  grew  paler  and  feebler  and  thinner  through  all  the 
summer,  and  more  and  more  beautiful  with  it  all. 

The  bright,  pleasant  autumn  weather,  from  which  so 
much  w’as  expected,  did  her  no  good  ; and  now,  in  the 
midwinter,  death  seemed  very  near. 

Old  Mariuccia  only  hoped  that  she  might  live  to  pro- 
vide food  for  the  child,  while  its  frail  little  life  still  lasted. 

It  was  now  two  years  since  the  old  grandmother  had 
been  able  to  sing.  Her  throat  seemed  paralyzed — perhaps 
wdth  age,  perhaps  with  grief,  and  its  music  was  dead.  She 


THE  LAST  CHORD, 


133 


could  only  ask  huskily  for  alms,  when  she  played  for 
strangers. 

While  she  sat  playing  that  night  among  the  pitying 
people,  by  the  Duomo,  the  little  grandchild,  in  a garret 
near  the  Arno,  lay  watching  the  gleaming  stars. 

The  mavis  in  its  humble  cage,  at  her  side,  had  long 
since  gone  to  sleep.  Each  day  a kind  lady  who  lived 
near  the  Ponte  Vecchio  gave  old  Mariuccia  food  for  the 
bird,  out  of  pity  for  the  little  one  ; and  so,  sometimes, 
the  little  songster  fared  better  than  the  old  woman  or 
the  sick  child. 

As  the  strength  of  the  child  flagged,  so  the  song  of  tlie 
mavis  every  day  grew  softer  and  sweeter,  until  it  became 
scarcely  more  than  a gurgle  in  the  gay  little  creature’s 
tiiroat.  That  day — that  sad,  strange  day — an  hour  before 
nightfall  the  mavis  ceased  singing  altogether  and  sat  on 
its  perch,  watching  the  sick  child,  as  if  it  knew  that  its 
little  friend  was  dying.  The  eyes  of  the  child,  and  those 
of  the  bird,  were  fixed  upon  each  other  when  the  latter 
went  to  sleep. 

Old  Mariuccia  twanged  the  strings  of  her  mandolin 
more  and  more  faintly  as  midnight  drew  near. 

The  people  watched  her  longer  than  they  ever  had  be- 
fore, and  wondered  over  and  over  and  over  again,  why 
instead  of  going  home  to  the  sick  child,  she  still  sat  play- 
ing in  the  frosty  air.  Her  old,  watery  eyes  looked  straight 
ahead,  but  they  seemed  to  see  nothing.  Her  little  box 
was  almost  full  of  coin — fuller  than  it  had  ever  been  any 
night  before  since  her  voice  left  her. 

‘‘  Someone  will  have  to  look  after  the  grandchild  be- 
fore morning,”  said  a brown  baker. 

“Not  for  long,”  said  another  ; “she  will  follow  the  old 
woman  closely.” 

Just  then  a stranger — young,  handsome,  and  splendidly 
dressed — suddenly  joined  the  group,  and  made  inquiry  as 
to  why  the  old  woman  was  playing  so  late  in  the  night. 
He  was  an  Italian,  but  there  was  a trace  of  a northern 
tongue  in  his  accent. 

“ She  seems  to  be  dying,”  said  the  brown  baker.  “ She 
is  playing  for  her  little  grandchild,  and  we  don’t  dare  dis- 
turb her.  It  might  kill  her,  you  see.” 

Something  about  the  old  woman’s  face  made  the 
stranger  gasp  for  breath,  and  clutch  the  sturdy  baker  by 
the  arm.  He  asked  who  and  what  she  was,  and  all  about 
her. 


134 


THE  LAST  CHORD. 


They  told  liim  the  old  woman’s  story,  how  her  husband 
had  died  and  her  daughter  had  gone  away  ; and  then  how 
she  had  then  come  back  to  die,  bringing  with  her  a name- 
less babe. 

When  the  stranger  was  told  how  tenderly  the  old 
woman  had  cared  for  the  child,  and  how  bravely  she  had 
toiled  for  it,  sometimes  fainting  for  bread  herself  so  that 
the  unknown  little  one  did  not  starve,  he,  the  strong  man, 
cried  out  in  agony,  and  threw  himself  into  the  baker’s 
arms  and  wept. 

The  people  looked  from  him  to  each  other  in  silent 
wonderment.  They  could  not  understand  why  so  fine  a 
stranger  should  be  so  moved  at  the  simple  story  of  an  old, 
half-dying  beggar  and  her  family,  which  they  all  knew  so 
well  and  had  all  known  so  long. 

Through  all  the  story  and  the  stranger’s  agitation  the 
brave  old  woman  still  sat  and  twanged  her  mandolin,  in 
the  same  helpless,  listless  way.  She  saw  neither  the 
stranger  nor  the  people,  and  she  did  not  even  seem  to 
hear  the  clink  of  the  coin,  which  from  time  to  time  fell 
into  her  cup. 

Finally  the  stranger  recovered  his  self-possession,  and 
stood  looking  sorrowfully  at  the  old  woman.  There  were 
traces  of  tears  in  his  eyes,  and  his  lips  were  quivering  with 
suppressed  grief.  Suddenly,  he  pulled  oft  his  velvet  cap, 
faced  the  people,  and  began  speaking. 

‘‘Friends,”  he  said;  “if  you  will  let  me  call  you  so, 
yonder  old  woman  was  wrecked  a.nd  saddened  through  me 
— but  wait  until  I have  done  before  you  pronounce  the 
fault  all  mine.  It  was  I who  stole  old  Mariuccia’s 
daughter  away,  but  I meant  her  no  ill,  and  I made  her 
my  wife.  The  cliild  she  brought  back,  and  whom  you 
now  say  is  dying,  too,  is  of  honest  birth.  Three  months 
after  that  marriage  1 was  seized  and  imprisoned  for  a 
crime  which  my  brother  had  done.  My  poor  wife  never 
knew  what  had  happened  to  me,  and  tliough  I sought  lier, 
I never  once  heard  of  her  until  to-night,  when  you  told 
me  all  here.  In  my  hand  is  a package  of  papers  in 
proof  of  what  I have  said.  Here,  honest  baker,  take  it 
to  some  notary  and  see  if  I have  not  told  the  truth.  I 
have  plenty  of  gold,  too,  if  I am  back  in  time  for  it  to 
do  any  good  to  those  who  should  have  it.  But  with  what 
dreadful  news  do  you  greet  me!  My  wife  dead — my  child 
dying!  Quick,  take  me  to  my  babe  before  the  light  of 
life  fades  from  her  eyes,  too,  and  she  can  no  longer  see 


THE  LAST  CHORD. 


135 


the  father  at  whose  call  she  came  into  the  world.  But 
stay,  see  old  Mariuccia  ! 

The  old  woman  had  arisen  once  more  to  her  full  stature, 
and  stood,  with  a strange  smile  upon  her  wrinkled  lips, 
and  a strange  light  upon  her  withered  and  furrowed  face. 
One  of  her  thin,  bony  hands  still  held  the  mandolin,  and 
with  the  other  she  pointed  to  the  eastward. 

Listen,”  she  whispered  huskily.  “ I can  hear  the  voices 
of  the  mavis  and  the  child.  Both  are  singing.  And  yet 
see,  it  is  nearly  midnight.  How  odd  that  they  should  be 
singing  now  !.  Some  one  must  have  given  them  a candle, 
else  they  would  be  sleeping.  I must  go  and  darken  their 
room — their  poor  little  room — or  they  will  sing  all  night. 

Slowly  she  wavered,  to  and  fro,  as  if  she  was  about  fall- 
ing, but  no  one  stepped  forward  to  save  her,  for  no  one 
seemed  able  to  move. 

And  then,  still  smiling,  she  sat  down  and  again  touched 
the  mandolin. 

Her  music  was  dreamy  and  wavering  ; and  every  now 
and  then  she  played  a false  note  ; but  the  little  group 
around  her,  listened  attentively,  almost  breathlessly,  to 
every  sound  which  came  to  thetii  from  her  worn  and 
polished  instrument. 

She  seemed  to  imagine  that  she  was  once  more  in 
seme  Roman  theatre,  and  she  frequently  bowed  her  gray, 
disheveled  head,  in  acknowledgment  of  some  imaginary 
tribute,  to  what  had  once  been  her  grace  and  beauty. 

The  moon  had  arisen,  full  and  white.  It  gleamed  coldly 
against  the  surrounding  hills,  glittered  on  all  the  spires 
and  domes,  and  sent  a great,  wavering  glare  down  the 
broad,  high  Campanile.  As  if  called  into  being  by  the 
light  itself,  darker  shadows  crept  into  the  vast  arches  of 
the  Duomo,  hung  there,  and  deepened  almost  into  black- 
ness. 

Far  away,  in  the  cold,  desolate  garret  by  the  Arno,  the 
mavis  still  slept  in  its  cage.  The  child,  too,  had  been 
sleeping  in  her  rude,  comfortless  bed,  but  something  had 
just  awakened  her. 

She  was  startled,  and  cried  out  so  loudly  that  she 
awakened  the  mavis,  and  it  twittered  in  response. 

The  child  tried  to  soothe  the  bird,  but  could  not.  She 
had  spent  her  whole  strength  in  that  one  cry,  and  now  all 
the  blood  that  she  had  in  her  little  pearly  veins,  had  burst 
the  frail  boundaries,  and  was  trickling  down  her  throat. 

Soon  it  stopped  her  breath,  and  she  sank  back  dead. 


136 


THE  LAST  CHORD, 


As  she  died,  a clock  began  striking  twelve,  but  before  it 
had  finished,  the  mavis  fell  from  its  perch  and  was  also 
dead  when  it  struck  the  bottom  of  its  little  cage. 

Higher  and  higher  sailed  the  moon,  until  one  of  its  long 
shafts  of  light  brightened  the  little  bleak  room  in  which 
the  little  child  and  the  mavis  lay,  and  another  shone  into 
the  faces  of  the  stranger  and  his  companions  as  they  stood 
mutely  watching  the  old  woman. 

When  the  hour  of  midnight  began  striking,  Mariuccia 
leaned  forward  and  smiled  as  if  some  invisible  phantom 
were  whispering  into  her  ear. 

Then  the  shadow  of  death  came  upon  her  face,  and  her 
eyes  burned  with  a fierce  blaze. 

Lighter  and  lighter  she  touched  her  mandolin,  until  but 
the  faintest  sounds  came  in  answer  to  her  weak,  old  fin- 
gers. Fainter  and  feebler  were  the  notes,  until  her  mo- 
tionless hand  lay  across  the  instrument,  and  it  ceased 
vibrating. 

As  she  sat  there,  breathless  and  nearly  lifeless,  swift 
changes  came  over  her  face.  In  mernory  she  was  once 
more  coursing  along  the  pathway  of  her  past. 

Now  she  was  the  gay  singer  before  great  audiences, 
whom  the  masters — the  very  ones  who  7nade  music  and 
song — had  said  was  sure  to  \^in  fame  and  fortune. 

Now,  Beppo — bright,  handsome^  loving  Beppo — had 
come  down  from  Florence,  and  the  tenderness  of  his 
caresses  had  won  her  forever  away  from  her  singing  and 
stage  life. 

The  masters  had  called  her  a fool  for  marrying  ; but 
she  had  believed  that  love  was  best.  So  it  was,  too,  until 
the  fever  killed  Beppo  and  left  her  alone  with  the  baby. 

The  poor  baby  ! She  blamed  herself  because  it  had  fled, 
only  to  come  back  after  a time  with  a grandchild  for  the 
old  woman.  And  the  dear  grandchild  ! How  she  had 
loved  the  sweet  little  one,  and  how  she  had  hoped,  year 
after  year,  that  its  father  would  come  and  help  it  to  a 
better,  easier  life — for  she,  true  heart,  had  never  once 
doubted  that  the  baby,  her  daughter,  Beppo’s  child  and 
hers,  was  an  honorable  and  lawful  wife.  True,  the  girl 
had  fled  with  some  lover  ; but  it  was  all  right — she  was  a 
wife  for  all  that. 

Now  she  had  only  the  grandchild  left,  and  even  that  was 
dying.  Dying  ! God  ! Who  said  dying  ? Her  cup  was 
full  of  money  ; the  people  had  been  very  generous  ; she 
could  hurry  home  and  save  the  grandchild. 


THE  LAST  CHORD. 


137 


Just  then  a divided  ray  of  the  moonlight  touched  her 
dying  face  and  the  face  of  the  dead  grandchild  at  the  same 
instant. 

Did  she  know  it — could  she  tell  and  feel  what  it  all 
meant  ? Is  it  given  to  the  dying  to  know  such  things  at 
such  times  ? Who  can  tell  ? 

Anyhow,  the  mandolin  once  more  found  a pillow  upon 
Mariuccia’s  bosom,  and  once,  twice,  three  times,  her  old 
hand  touched  the  worn  strings  with  all  the  vigor  and 
fervor  of  her  youth  ; and  the  wonderful  chord  she  brought 
from  the  sweet  instrument  will  linger  forever  upon  the 
ears  and  in  the  hearts  of  every  one  who  heard  it. 

But  that  chord  was  her  last. 

Once  more  the  old  fingers  clutched  the  strings  strongly, 
but  it  was  with  the  strength — the  destroying  strength — of 
death.  Every  string  fell  broken,  quivering  and  useless  at 
her  violent  and  unnatural  touch. 

Slowly  and  helplessly  she  leaned  forward,  and  then  a 
dead  weight,  fell  upon  her  face,  crushing  her  mandolin 
under  her. 

There  she  lay,  lifeless  and  motionless.  It  was  several 
seconds  before  anyone  dared  approach  her,  for  the  sound 
of  that  last,  thrilling,  passionate  burst  of  music  still  wav- 
ered and  circled,  strangely  and  menacingly,  in  the  air 
about  her,  as  if  protecting,  in  death,  the  faithful  old  crea- 
ture whom  music  had  sustained  in  life  ; and  when  its  final 
faint  echoes  were  dead,  her  heart  gave  its  last  patient 
throb. 


HE  AND  SHE 


A SMALL  black  and  yellow  spider,  nervous,  swift,  and 
supple,  crawled  to  the  verge  of  the  balcony  roof  and  flat- 
tened himself  in  the  scorching  sunshine. 

Finding  the  heat  too  intense,  after  a few  minutes,  he 
dropped  over  the  edge  of  the  roof,  and  began  unwinding 
his  slender  web,  letting  himself  down,  slowly  and  silently, 
into  the  shadow  below. 

Whether  he  intended  lowering  himself  into  the  garden, 
or  only  to  the  cool,  polished  floor  of  the  balcony,  can  never 
be  told,  for  when  he  was  about  half  way  between  the  lat- 
ter point  and  the  roof,  he  stopped  at  the  soft  sound  of  a 
girl’s  voice. 

She  lay  on  a pile  of  costly  rugs  and  furs,  in  the  balcony, 
with  her  face  turned  skyward.  She  saw  the  spider,  the 
moment  he  forsook  the  sunshine,  and  she  watched  him, 
almost  breathlessly,  as  he  came  down  his  frail  ladder. 

She  waited,  impatiently,  until  he  was  on  a level  with  her 
eyes,  when  she  put  out  her  hand — but  she  changed  her 
mind  and  did  not  touch  him. 

‘‘  Stop,  spider,”  she  said,  “and  listen  to  me.  If  you  go 
back  again,  to  the  warm  sunshine  which  you  have  just  left, 
I shall  believe  that  the  one  for  whom  I have  been  waiting 
so  long  is  coming  to  me  to-day — to-day!  But  if  you  go  on 
down  to  the  cold,  relentless  earth,  which  lays  so  heavily 
upon  the  bosoms  of  my  dear  dead  ones,  I shall  know 
that  they  who  have  left  me  were  mistaken,  and  that  all  my 
watching  and  hoping  is  in  vain.” 

At  her  first  word,  the  spider  ceased  descending,  and, 
fanned  by  the  girl’s  breath,  swung  gently  to  and  fro  while 
she  was  speaking. 

Her  voice  may  have  frightened  him,  or  it  might  have 
suddenly  occurred  to  him  that  the  sunshine  was,  after  all, 
better  tlian  the  shade.  Anyhow,  he  thrust  his  delicate  legs 


HE  AND  SHE, 


139 


out,  apprehensively,  half  a dozen  times,  and  then,  turning 
hastily,  he  scampered  back  again  up  toward  the  roof. 

To  the  girl,  however,  the  action  of  the  spider  was  a 
direct  answer  to  her  attempt  at  divination.  If  the  spider 
had  not,  indeed,  understood  her,  some  kindly  fate  or  spirit, 
hovering  near,  had  heard  her,  and  had,  accordingly,  in- 
duced, from  the  dainty  spinner  of  webs,  the  answer  which 
the  sighing  maiden  coveted. 

Her  breath  came  quicker  and  stronger  after  the  spider 
was  gone,  and  a pale  tinge  of  pink  lighted  up  the  waxen 
whiteness  of  her  cheeks.  She  smiled  faintly  and  clasped 
her  thin  white  hands  tightly  across  her  bosom. 

He  will  come,”  she  murmured  ; ‘‘  he  will  come  to-day ! ” 

For  weeks  she  had  been  lying  near  death,  pale,  weak,  and 
helpless,  and  now  a spider  had  wrought  a change  in  her 
which  had  been  impossible  to  the  skill  of  the  doctors. 
They,  the  wise  and  cunning  physicians,  had  failed,  because 
they  did  not  understand  her  malady.  They  were  formula- 
ting intricate  and  elaborate  hypotheses,  and  treating  her 
accordingly,  when,  all  the  time,  she  was  dying  of  loneliness 
and  love  ; loneliness  because  of  dear  ones  that  were  dead, 
and  love  for  a man  whom  she  had  never  seen,  whose  name 
she  did  not  know,  and  who,  perhaps,  had  no  existence  ex- 
cept in  her  girlish  fancy. 

Though  she  was  just  entering  her  eighteenth  year,  all 
her  days  had  been  full  of  dreams,  sunshine,  and  poetic 
fancies.  Of  practical  life  she  knew  nothing  ; and  sorrow, 
until  it  had  suddenly  been  thrust  upon  her  unawares,  she 
could  not  understand. 

Her  father  was  Alfieri,  the  poet,  and  her  mother  was 
Teresa,  the  artist.  Theirs  had  been  one  of  those  rare  and 
happy  marriages,  after  which  there  are  only  perfect  days 
and  bliss  such  as  death  alone  can  change  or  quench.  But 
one  child  came  to  make  mirth  and  prattle  in  the  home  of 
Alfieri  and  Teresa,  and  they  named  her  Valentia. 

Art  and  poetry  made  up  the  whole  atmosphere  which  the 
little  one  breathed,  and  the  old  myths  and  gods  who  filled 
the  burning  verses  of  her  father  and  gleamed  in  radiant 
splendor  upon  the  great  canvases  which  came  from  her 
mother’s  deft  hands  were  as  real  to  lier  as  the  people  she 
saw  in  the  streets. 

This  was  her  home,  all  rich  and  glorious  with  love,  art, 
and  song,  until  one  day  when  an  accident  deprived  Valen- 
tia of  both  her  father  and  lier  mother. 

All  Italy  wept  with  her,  in  such  high  esteem  did  that 


140 


HE  AND  SHE, 


art-loving  people  hold  Alfieri  and  his  wife ; but  th^nation’s 
grief  brought  no  consolation  to  Valentia.  Italy  sorrowed 
for  the  dead  poet  and  the  dead  artist,  she  for  her  dead 
parents.  To  the  people  it  was  the  silencing  of  a beloved 
voice  and  the  pausing  of  a beloved  brush  ; to  her  it  was 
the  end  of  all  that  she  had  counted  life. 

She  wept  for  her  dead,  but  she  wept  still  more  because 
she  had  not  been  taken  with  them.  Death  was  no  surprise, 
no  marvel  to  her  ; but  she  had  never  before  contemplated 
it  in  such  a way.  When  those  whom  she  and  the  nation 
mourned,  in  such  sadly  different  ways,  were  entombed, 
Valentia  went  back  alone  to  her  beautiful  but  desolate 
home. 

One  cannot  weep  always,  and  then,  too,  tears  are  a 
relief.  When  hers  were  done  there  came  to  her  a subtler 
anguish — a keen  yet  benumbing  grief — which  made  the 
sorrow  of  her  first  days  of  sadness  seem  as  nothing.  Her 
ripe,  round  limbs  grew  thin  and  frail ; and  all  the  rose  tints 
went  out  of  her  face,  leaving  only  ghastly  white  in  their 
stead. 

Before  Alfieri  and  his  wife  had  been  many  days  dead, 
Venice  was  startled  one  night  by  the  rumor  that  Valentia 
was  dying. 

The  physicians  had  declared  that  her  vitality  was  so 
seriously  attacked  that  in  a few  hours  at  most  she  must 
surrender  her  life. 

Once  more  was  there  a husli  in  the  merry  city.  Valentia 
was  born  of  two  of  the  nation’s  favorites,  and  Italy  always 
holds  the  children  of  the  great  in  reverence,  so  the  proba- 
bility of  her  death  was  looked  forward  to  as  another 
national  calamity — all  the  more  so  since  it  was  generally 
believed  that  she  was  not  without  some  of  the  genius  of 
her  parents. 

She  lay  in  her  chamber  surrounded  by  her  physicians 
and  servants. 

The  brightness  had  gone  out  of  her  eyes,  and  each  mo- 
ment her  pulsations  became  feebler  and  more  irregular. 
Her  breathing  could  no  longer  be  heard.  An  occasional 
half-stifled  sob  fro'm  one  of  the  servants,  and  the  ticking  of 
the  watch  which  one  of  the  physicians  held  in  his  hand, 
alone  broke  the  silence  of  the  room.  Outside  the  palace 
the  stillness  was  quite  as  complete.  Nature  and  humanity 
both  seemed  hushed  and  awed,  awaiting  the  passing  of 
the  daugliter  of  Alfieri  and  Teresa. 

In  a few  moments  it  will  all  be  over,”  wliispered  one 


HE  AND  SHE, 


141 

of  the  pliysicians  to  another  ; but  even  as  he  spoke  the 
girl’s  breast  heaved,  and  a strong  light  came  into  her  eyes. 
After  a heav)^  sigh  she  began  breathing  again — slowly  and 
lightly,  but  still  evenly. 

'‘We  have  succeeded  ; we  shall  save  her,”  whispered  the 
physicians  to  each  other. 

Valentia  heard  them  and  smiled,  and  a faint  trace  of 
color  played  upon  her  face  for  an  instant. 

She  knew,  as  she  had  known  all  along,  that  medicine 
could  do  nothing  for  her.  It  never  has  imprisoned,  and  it 
never  will  imprison,  an  impatient  spirit  in  a casket  which 
it  is  no  longer  willing  to  inhabit. 

Ever  since  the  moment  of  the  death  of  her  dear  ones, 
she  had  felt  that  her  strength  was  forsaking  her.  She  was 
glad  of  it,  and  had  hoped  that  she  might  speedily  become 
so  weak  that  death  would  hasten  her  away  to  join  those 
who  had  gone  and  left  her  so  desolate. 

When,  at  last,  the  people  thought  her  dying,  and  she 
also  realized  that  she  was  drifting  away  from  the  scenes 
which  were  now  so  dreadful,  though  they  had  once  been 
so  dear  to  her,  she  was  happy  again. 

After  a month,  when  the  end  seemed  so  near  at  hand, 
and  the  physicians  and  servants  were  so  gravely  watching 
the  going  of  her  last  little  hoard  of  strength,  she  suddenly 
began  comparing  the  life  she  had  lived  with  the  lives  of 
her  parents.  She  was  moved  by  something  very  like 
regret  when  she  saw  how  incomplete  hers  had  been. 
Love,  save  the  love  her  parents  had  borne  her,  was  all 
unknown  to  her,  and  now  the  blissful  future  which  they 
had  taught  her  would  be  hers  was  being  cut  off  by  the 
surrender  of  her  will. 

‘‘  Ought  I to  die  ? ” she  asked  herself.  Will  it  be  right 
for  me  to  go  before  the  one  comes  who  my  mother  said 
would  be  as  much  to  me  as  my  father  was  to  her  ? They 
might  be  displeased  if  I went  to  them  without  waiting  a 
little  longer.  If  he  would  only  come  quickly — it  is  so 
lonely  here  now  ! It  was  only  a few  weeks  ago,  though, 
that  mamma  said  I would  soon  have  the  music  of  his  voice 
ringing  in  my  ears.  He  may  come  soon;  she  must  have 
known.  What  if  he  came  to-morrow  and  found  me  gone  ?” 

It  was  this  last  thought  which  made  her  breast  heave, 
and  sent  the  light  into  her  eyes,  which  the  physicians  had 
credited  to  their  skill.  That  was  why  their  words  had  tinted 
her  cheeks  and  made  her  smile. 

Presently  she  asked  for  a glass  of  wine,  and  showed 


142 


HE  AND  SHE. 


signs  of  rallying.  The  next  day  the  physicians,  in  their 
blindness  and  conceit,  declared  tiiat  they  had  taken  her 
safely  past  the  crisis,  and  that  she  was  certain  to  recover. 

All  the  while  she  lay  dreaming  of  her  lover  whose  com- 
ing was  to  make  her  life  so  sweet  and  beautiful,  never  once 
doubting  that  he  would  hasten  to  her. 

Her  head  was  as  full  of  romance  as  her  heart  was  of 
tenderness,  and  now  that  she  was  trying  to  strengthen  the 
thread  of  life  which  she  had  so  nearly  snapped"  asunder, 
she  believed  that  the  fates  would  at  once  bestow  upon  her 
the  happiness  which  her  mother  had  said  was  certain  to 
be  hers. 

Each  night  she  went  sighing  to  sleep,  because  she  was  still 
alone,  and  each  morning,  her  cheeks  were  first  bathed  with 
her  own  tears.  A week  passed,  and  then  another  week, 
and  still  he  did  not  come.  And  so  nearly  two  months 
went  their  monotonous  round. 

At  length,  one  day,  as  she  lay  in  the  balcony,  nearly  hope- 
less, the  gay  little  spider  came  floating  down,  a tiny  speck 
against  the  warm  summer  sky,  from  the  roof  overhead. 

Her  religion  was  a quaint  and  generous  confusion  of  all 
the  gods,  myths,  and  spirits,  in  which  all  other  objects  and 
phantasms,  real  and  unreal,  animate  and  inanimate,  were 
inextricably  intermingled,  according  to  an  elaborate  and 
intricate  system  which  was  drawn  and  woven  from  her  own 
weird  and  fantastic  thoughts  and  fancies. 

So,  to  her,  the  coming  of  the  spider  was  no  accident,  but 
a messenger  from  those  in  whose  power  it  was  to  tell  her 
of  things  that  were  to  be. 

Since  her  mystic  lover  was  now  the  centre  of  all  her 
thoughts  and  her  sole  object  and  purpose  in  life,  she  had 
hailed  the  spider  as  an  oracle. 

When,  seemingly,  in  answer  to  her  questioning,  the 
spider  returned  to  the  roof  and  the  sunshine,  Valentia’s 
happiness  was  complete.  But  noon  came  and  went,  and 
so  did  the  rest  of  the  day  until  the  sunlight  only  lingered 
on  the  tops  of  the  highest  trees  in  the  garden. 

Still  she  was  alone. 

Then  the  last  wavering  tint  of  daylight  faded  and  the 
day  was  gone. 

Long  before  the  full  moon  showed  its  cold  yellow  face 
in  the  east,  the  servants  found  Valentia  lying  on  the  floor 
of  the  balcony,  in  a swoon. 

The  physicians  were  summoned,  and  they  again  pro- 
claimed that  Alfieri’s  daughter  was  dying. 


HE  AND  SHE. 


143 


Cozzim,  the  great  Italian  tenor,  over  whom  all  Europe 
was  raving,  had  that  night  returned  to  Venice,  his  native 
city.  The  people  had  planned  to  give  him  a merry  wel- 
come, but  they  desisted  for  Valentia’s  sake.  Alfieri  was 
as  great  as  Cozzini,  and  Alfieri’s  child  was  near  her  death  ; 
so  Cozzini  must  be  content  with  knowing  that  his  people 
welcomed  him  in  their  hearts.  True  Italian  that  he  was, 
he  would  not  have  had  it  otherwise. 

‘‘  Go  and  sing  to  the  dying  girl,  from  her  garden,”  said 
an  old  player  to  Cozzini.  It  may  cheer  her  last  moments, 
and  then,  since  she  is  soon  to  enter  heaven,  she  can  com- 
pare your  music  with  that  of  the  angels.” 

It  was  roughly  said,  but  kindly  meant,  for  the  old  man 
was  tender-hearted.  As  is  often  the  case,  Cozzini,  without 
knowing  why,  was  moved  to  act  upon  the  suggestion. 
After  a few  moments,  he  walked  quietly  away,  by  himself, 
and  went  straight  to  Alfieri’s  garden. 

After  her  swoon  Valentia  asked  them  to  take  her  from 
her  bed,  where  the  frightened  servants  liad  put  her,  and 
let  her  lie  in  the  balcony  again. 

The  garden  was  bright  and  glorious  with  the  moonlight, 
and  a little  way  from  where  she  was  lying,  gurgling  water 
splashed  and  gleamed,  in  a silver  and  marble  fountain. 
Her  fancy  peopled  the  fountain  with  spirits,  who  were 
singing  faint  little  songs  to  the  accompaniment  of  the  danc- 
ing water. 

Back  of  the  fountain  was  a statue  of  Venus,  which  stood 
partly  in  the  shadow  of  some  rose-trees.  Valentia’s  eyes 
wandered  from  the  fountain  to  the  statue,  sadly  and  wear- 
ily, when  all  at  once  it  seemed  to  her  that  the  music  of 
her  water-spirits  was  growing  louder. 

A moment  later  she  could  distinguish  the  words. 

It  was  one  of  the  sweet,  impassioned  love-songs  of  Italy, 
which  her  mother  used  to  sing.  But  never  had  she  heard 
such  a voice  before  ; could  it  be  an  angel — was  she  really 
dying,  at  last  ? The  thought  startled  her,  and  she  glanced 
quickly  up  at  the  physician  who  was  nearest  to  her. 

There  was  a look  of  intense  wonderment  on  his  face  ; 
and  his  eyes,  full  of  amazement,  were  fixed  upon  the  foun- 
tain. To  her  surprise  the  eyes  of  the  rest  of  the  group 
were  bent  in  the  same  direction. 

She  was  dazed  and  bewildered. 

Through  all  her  life  she  had  heard  music  and  voices 
everywhere  about  her,  but  nobody  else  could  ever  hear 
them,  and  why  should  the  singing  of  the  water-spirits,  and 


144 


HE  AND  SHE. 


of  the  angel,  reach  the  ears  of  the  hard,  unfeeling  doctors, 
and  the  coarse  servants,  now  ? 

Her  strength  seemed  suddenly  to  have  comeback  again, 
and,  brushing  her  hand  across  her  eyes,  she  also  looked  to- 
ward the  fountain.  Partly  behind  it,  sitting  at  the  feet  of 
the  statue  of  Venus,  was  a shape,  the  first  sight  of  which 
sent  all  her  blood  flying  through  her  veins.  Her  cheeks 
burned,  her  eyes  shone  with  an  ecstatic  brilliancy,  and  the 
whole  tide  of  life,  lialf-dormant,  half-somnolent  for  so  long, 
once  more  asserted  its  supremacy. 

Her  heart  leaped  wildly  at  the  thought  that  her  mother 
had  been  right  in  her  prophecy,  and  also  that  the  spider 
oracle  was  true  ; for  the  shape  at  the  foot  of  the  marble 
Venus  was  that  of  a man,  and  it  was  he  who  was  sing- 
ing. 

All  her  morbid  stupor  and  torpor  was  gone,  and  her 
whole  being  was  throbbing  and  burning  with  life. 

“ Soon  the  music  of  his  voice  will  ring  in  your  ears 

Those  were  her  mother’s  very  words,  and  now  she  be- 
lieved that  it  was,  indeed,  her  mystic  lover  she  saw  before 
her,  and  whose  song  -so  wonderfully  blended  with  the 
rhythm  of  the  splashing  fountain.  She  had  no  doubt  of 
that,  and  her  varied  emotions,  suppressed  and  hidden  from 
those  about  her,  for  so  many  sad,  weary  weeks,  overstepped 
control  at  last,  and  her  voice  rang  out  in  one  glad  crv  of 
joy. 

Then,  startled  and  abashed,  at  the  sound  which  had  so 
unconsciously  escaped  from  her  throat,  she  sank  back 
upon  her  couch  of  furs,  from  which  she  had  partially 
arisen,  and  covered  her  face  with  her  hands. 

“ The  singer  has  killed  her,”  cried  one  of  the  physicians, 
in  alarm. 

Cozzini,  startled  and  terrified,  sprang  away  from  his  seat 
under  the  outstretched  arms  of  the  marble  Venus,  ran  for- 
ward, and  climbed  into  the  balcony  beside  Valencia. 

“ Is  she  dead  ?”  he  asked,  huskily. 

“No  !”  said  Valentia,  uncovering  her  eyes,  and  looking 
up  into  his  face.  “ I am  not  dead  ; you  came  in  time  to 
save  me.” 

“Her  mind  wanders,”  whispered  one  of  the  physicians, 
and  she  answered  him  with  a laugh. 

“ Send  these  people  away,”  she  said  to  Cozzini  ; “ they 
have  annoyed  me  long  enough.” 

The  servants  and  physicians  retired,  and  she  bade  Coz- 
zini close  the  window  after  them.  Then,  half-timidly,  she 


HE  AND  SHE, 


145 


gave  him  one  of  her  little,  thin,  white  hands.  Reverently 
he  raised  it  to  his  lips. 

‘‘Why  were  you  so  long  in  coming?”  she  asked,  with 
deepening  color  and  shining  eyes. 

“ The  people  kept  me,”  he  said,  puzzled  by  her  question 
and  not  knowing  how  to  answer  it. 

And  then,  in  her  sweet,  childish  way,  she  told  him  all 
about  her  life  and  her  beliefs,  the  future  her  parents  had 
said  would  be  hers,  and  all  her  hopes  and  -fears,  even  to 
the  spider  oracle. 

Cozzini  was  overwhelmed  with  amazement  as  she  prat- 
tled on  so  frankly.  He  had  long  since  grown  bitter  to- 
ward women,  believing  them  all  coquettes  and  wantons. 
Could  it  be  that  there  was  one,  so  innocent  and  pure  ? 
With  streaming  eyes,  he  knelt  beside  her  and  took  her 
frail  little  figure  up  into  his  arms. 

“ I love  you  ! ” he  said,  and  it  was  the  truth. 

She  wound  her  arms  about  his  neck,  and  then  their 
lips  met  in  the  first  kiss  she  had  ever  known  from  any 
man  save  her  father.  In  answer  to  his  sweet  words,  she 
hid  her  face  on  his  shoulder  and  softly  whispered  them 
back  to  him. 


10 


A SEAM  IN  THE  WALL. 


There  had  been  war  in  Italy. 

The  country  was  saved,  but  at  the  price  of  blood. 

Brave  men  had  fallen,  and  wives,  sweethearts,  mothers, 
sisters,  daughters,  wept  over  the  graves  of  the  dead. 

The  crisis  was  past  and  workmen  were  clearing  away 
the  ruins  which  armies  had  made. 

Each  shattered  stone,  each  fragment  of  plaster,  each 
scrap  of  iron,  each  splinter  of  wood,  could  have  told  a 
story  of  woe  and  horror,  had  the  powers  that  move  the 
universe  but  gifted  them  with  speech.  • ^ 

The  paving-stones  in  the  streets  were  stained  with  blood, 
and  the  frescos  in  the  old  churches  were  scorched  and 
shivered. 

The  birds  in  the  trees,  the  trees  themselves,  and  the 
pretty  vines  which  clung  to  the  trees,  sang,  whispered,, 
sighed  of  war. 

Yet  those  warm-hearted,  sunny  people  of  Italy  rejoiced 
even  while  they  mourned.  Once  more  they  were  free  ! 
If  human  lives  had  been  exchanged  for  liberty,  liberty 
was  all  the  more  precious  for  that. 

So  the  workmen  sang  as  they  worked,  and  they  lifted 
up  shovels  full  of  the  debris  as  tenderly  as  a mother  would 
lift  up  and  put  away  the  broken  toys  of  her  dead  son. 

And  the  songs  which  came  from  ihe  lips  of  those  dusky, 
dirt'Smeared  workmen  were  not  all  of  woe,  nor  of  triumph, 
but  of  that  which  is  sweeter  and  grander — of  liberty  and 
peace.  All  save  one.  He  sang  of  love. 

He  was  a youth  whom  they  called  Beppo,  and  one  who 
was  sliapelier  of  limb  or  finer  in  face  could  not  be  found 
in  Italy — a land  of  handsome  men. 

No  hand  was  ahead  of  his  in  drawing  the  sword  for 
Italy,  and  when  the  invaders  were  driven  back  no  hand 
was  ahead  of  his  in  picking  up  the  spade.  He  had  been 


A SEAM  IN  THE  WALL, 


147 


first  among  those  who  struck  the  ‘‘  second  blow  which 
made  the  war.”  Now  that  it  was  over,  he  would  be  first 
among  those  whose  office  it  was  to  remove  the  wreck 
which  that  war  had" made. 

The  son  of  a peasant  he  had  the  heart  and  soul  of  an 
artist.  As  a child  he  had  drawn  wondrous  shapes  in  the 
sand  with  sticks,  or  upon  the  stones  with  still  sharper 
stones.  With  the  dead  coals  from  his  mother’s  fire  he 
had  made  sketches  upon  the  old  walls  which  won  for  him 
the  awe  and  admiration  of  his  prattling  playfellows. 
Later  on,  too  poor  to  buy  colors,  he  had  powdered  pieces 
of  brick  and  variously  colored  stones,  and  then  with  crude 
brushes  made  out  of  feathers,  he  had  painted  dainty  little 
bits  which  his  neighbors  thought  good  enough  to  offer  for 
sale  in  the  shop  windows. 

But  Italy  is  so  full  of  artists  and  poets  that  painters 
and  singers  can  only  starve,  except  they  couple  ruder  work 
with  art.  Now  and  then  the  superior  energy  or  skill  oi 
some  soft-eyed  peasant  breaks  down  the  barriers,  and  the 
false-hearted  world  does  him  homage.  While  he,  though, 
is  basking  in  the  smiles  of  his  admirers,  some  fellow-being, 
no  less  deserving,  is  dying  of  hunger  in  some  gloomy  garret. 

The  people  called  Beppo  ‘‘only  a dreamer”  till  the  war 
came.  After  that  they  said  : “ Here  is  a man  who  can  do 
something  else  than  mix  colors,”  but  still  he  would  have 
starved  but  for  the  work  which  he  got  among  the  ruins. 
And  still  he  sang  as  he  worked,  and  his  fellow-workmen 
smiled  because  he  sang  of  love.  “ Painters,  unless  they 
are  rich,  should  not  love,”  they  said.  “One  cannot  keep 
a wife  and  babies  on  dreams  and  colors.” 

But  Beppo  did  not  hear  them.  He  would  have  sung  just 
the  same  if  he  had.  He  was  thinking  of  Pippa — sweet 
Pippa,  whom  he  had  not  seen  since  the  war,  though  she 
had  seen  him  twice  ; once  when  with  the  other  soldiers 
he  had  marched  in  triumph  through  the  city  with  the  air 
ringing  with  songs  and  cries  of  victory.  She  saw  him — 
now. 

The  people  watched  her  as  she  stood,  in  her  maiden  love- 
liness, just  without  the  line  of  workmen.  She  was  watch- 
ing Beppo  there.  Some  word  of  his  love-song  reached  her 
ears  and  sent  the  rosy  blushes  into  her  cheeks.  In  her 
eyes  and  upon  her  lips  there  came  a smile,  such  as  must 
have  played  upon  the  face  of  the  Madonna  when  she  first 
knew  that  she  was  to  be  the  mother  of  the  Lord. 

The  shovels  of  the  workmen,  save  Beppo’s,  stopped. 


A SEAM  IN  THE  WALL, 


148 

The  men  were  watching  Pippa.  She,  though,  only  saw 
Beppo,  who  was  still  working  and  singing. 

Beppo  ! ” she  called. 

, He  looked  straight  up  into  the  heavens.  Had  some 
spirit,  with  Pippa’s  voice,  called  him  ? 

‘‘  Beppo  ! 

He  saw  her  now. 

Pippa  !”  he  cried,  and  sprang  forward  to  kiss  the  little 
hands  she  held  out  to  him. 

Then  she  raised  her  lips.  His  head  swam  with  delirious 
joy  as  he  stooped  and  kissed  her. 

The  men  resumed  their  work.  Where  else,  save  in  Italy, 
would  these  young  lovers  have  escaped  derision? 

A man  and  a maid  in  their  first  love  ! To  those  dark- 
skinned  sons  of  Italy  it  was  a sacred  sight,  and  it  made 
their  work  lighter — work  of  patriotism  though  it  was. 

Come  with  me,  Beppo,  where  we  shall  be  alone.  I 
have  sweet  things  to  say  to  you.” 

They  walked  away  together,  and  the  workmen  smiled  to 
see  them  go.  Pippa  and  Beppo.  Both  were  favorites. 
She  was  the  daughter  of  the  general — the  child  of  the 
dark,  stern  man  who  had  saved  their  beautiful  city.  Beppo 
was  a hero  and  a painter. 

“ Beppo,”  said  Pippa,  as  they  went  toward  the  cit)’-gate, 
‘‘  can  you  forgive  me,  dear,  for  sending  you  away  hope- 
less to  the  war  ? ” 

“ It  is  easy  to  forgive  anything  in  you,  sweet  Pippa. 
And  then — I have  nothing  to  forgive.  You  were  right  in 
sending  me  away.  I am  only  a poor  painter.  You  are  the 
general’s  daughter.  I could  only  give  you  a crust  and  a 
pallet  of  straw  in  excliange  for  rich  food,  old  wines,  and 
luxury.  I was  mad  to  hope  for  your  favor.  See  how  poor 
I am!  When  the  ruins  are  cleared,  and  the  little  which 
the  work  gives  me  is  gone,  I must  go  back  to  the  old  life 
of  starving.  It  will  be  all  the  harder  now  since  you  have 
kissed  me.  Why  did  you  do  it,  Pippa?” 

She  caught  his  hand  and  pressed  it  to  her  lips  before 
he  could  snatch  it  away. 

Beppo,  dear  Beppo — I kissed  you  partly  because  I 
love  you  and  partly  because ” 

What  is  it,  Pippa  ? Speak  ! ” 

“ Wait  a little,  dear.  The  crust  and  the  pallet  of  straw, 
with  love,  are  more  than  all  that  my  father’s  wealth  can  pro- 
vide. There  is  much  which  riches  cannot  give  me.  Love 
comes  first.” 


A SEAM  I/V  THE  WALL. 


149 


And  you  love  me,  Pippa,  well  enough  to  give  up  your 
father’s  home  for  my  hovel  ?” 

How  joyous  and  hopeful  he  was.  A twinkle  came  into 
her  eyes. 

I said  not  that.” 

But — your  words  seem  to  mean  that.  Oh,  do  not 
mock  me,  Pippa  ! I should  have  died  in  the  fields  where 
I fought ! Such  a burden  life  is  to  carry — when  it  is 
empty  ! ” 

“ Sit  here  a moment,”  she  said,  and  let  me  talk  with 
you.” 

They  had  entered  a narrow^  street,  under  the  shadow  of 
the  city  wnll.  There  was  a great  seam  in  the  high  wall 
before  them,  and  through  it  they  could  see  the  trees  and 
hills  outside. 

Is  not  this  where  you  drove  the  invaders  off?”  she 
asked. 

‘‘Yes;  that  seam  in  the  wall  was  caused  by  the  last 
charge  they  made.  One  more  charge  and  they  would 
have  been  where  we  are  now,  the  wall  is  so  weak.  But 
the  war  is  over,  and  so  why  talk  of  it  ? What  have  you  to 
say  to  me  ? ” 

“ Beppo,  my  father  bade  me  come  and  seek  you  and  tell 
you  that  he  thinks  that  you  are  a brave  man — a hero.” 

Beppo’s  e^es  glowed  with  pride,  and  then  they  filled. 
Tears  are  not  always  a sign  of  weakness  ; at  least,  so  she 
thought. 

“ When  he  found  out  that  you  loved  me,  Beppo,  a long 
time  ago,  he  said,  ‘ Beppo  is  a fine  youth,  Pippa,  but  I 
cannot  give  you  to  him.  True,  he  is  worthy  ; but  he  is  so 
poor.  He  is  a painter,  and  so  he  will  always  be  starving.’ 
Then,  Beppo,  the  war  came,  and  I sent  you  away,  as  he 
bade  me,  without  giving  you  a word  of  encouragement. 
He  wanted  you  tried  without  the  hope  of  reward  to 
spur  you  on.  You  were  so  brave  and  so  valiant  that  it 
made  /ihn  love  you,  too.  He  says  that  you  shall  have  your 
choice.  You  shall  be  a soldier  or  an  artist,  as  you  wish.” 

How  happy  he  was  ! She  had  never  seen  his  face  so 
radiant  before. 

“And  he  says  this? — the  general!  your  father!  He 
will  help  me  ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

He  smiled,  and  then  he  sighed. 

“ I must  be  a soldier,”  he  said. 

“ Why  ? ” 


A SEAM  IN'  I'HE  WALL. 


ISO 

“ It  will  please  your  father  best.  He  is  a soldier.”  , 

“ But  he  was  an  artist  once,  and  he  said  you  should  have' 
your  choice.” 

For  a long  time  Beppo  was  silent.  He  was  too  happy 
for  words.  Pippa  was  to  be  his  wife— that  was  what  it  all 
meant.  He  could  study  now,  as  he  had  w^anted  to  do  for 
so  long.  Yes,  his  dreams  would  be  realized  after  all.  He 
would  be  a great  artist.  He  had  genius  ; he  waas  sure  of 
that.  Pippa’s  love  and  her  father’s  money  w’ould  do  the 
rest.  They  should  be  proud  of  him,  too.  He  would  work 
hard,  and  repay  these  loving  ones  by  proving  to  them  that 
he  w'as  all  they  thought  he  was. 

He  was  sitting  on  a cannon.  But  one  short  w'eek  ago, 
that  cannon  had  made  havoc  in  the  ranks  of  the  invaders  ; 
but  for  it  the  enemies  of  Italy  might  have  left  some  sadder 
mark  to  tell  that  they  had  been  there  than  the  seam  in  the 
wall  before  him.  What  a wide,  jagged  seam  it  w’as.  The 
wall  was  ten  yards  high  there,  and  the  seam  ran  nearly 
from  the  top  to  the  bottom.  What  made  it  so  much  w’ider 
at  the  top  than  it  was  at  the  bottom  ? There  w^as  the 
difference  of  more  than  a yard.  Ah  ! the  walls  had  swung 
in  a little  ; that  was  the  cause  of  it. 

Merciful  God  ! What  was  it  he  saw  ? Could  he  believe 
his  own  eyes  ? The  wall  was  still  swinging — it  was  falling 
forward!  In  an  instant  more  it  would  be  upon  them,  and 
they  would  be  crushed  to  death.  Escape  was  impossible  ; 
there  was  no  time  for  that. 

‘‘  Pippa  ! the  wall  I ” he  cried,  and  then  caught  her  in 
his  arms. 

Thought  outspeeds  the  lightning  at  such  a time.  Swiftly 
through  his  mind  passed  all  the  events  of  his  life — his 
poverty  ; his  love  for  art  ; Pippa  ; the  war  ; the  general’s 
interest  in  him  ; and  now,  just  as  all  that  he  had  hoped 
for  was  in  his  grasp,  death  was  sweeping  it  away  ! 

Her  eyes  followed  his  to  the  wall.  She  saw  that  they  were 
doomed,  and  clung  to  him  as  the  vine  clings  to  the  trellis. 

• He  held  her  close. 

Crash  ! 

Thud  ! 

The  wall  was  down. 

When  the  dust  had  cleared  away,  there  the  lovers  still 
stood,  clasping  each  other  unharmed  ! As  the  wall  fell, 
the  seam  had  widened.  They  stood  in  the  open  space, 
with  the  great  masses  of  broken  stone  on  each  side  of  them, 
saved  ! 


MY  QUEEN,  BRUNEHILDE. 


O France  ! my  sweet  country — mighty  mother  of  the 
brave  and  the  free,  and  mightier  murderess  of  the  fair  and 
the  innocent  ; thou  who  hast  been  most  merciful  to  those 
who  hated  thee  and  most  cruel  to  those  who  loved  thee  ; 
thou  who  hast  glorified  thine  enemies  and  who  hast  re- 
warded thy  friends  with  death — thy  crime-stained  fingers 
have  clutched  the  life  from  no  fairer  tliroat  than  Brune- 
hilde’s  ! 

She  it  was  who  made  scholars  higher  and  grander  tlian 
warriors  and  yeomen,  and  set  savants  on  the  plane  with 
princes  and  generals  ; and  she  it  was  who  made  letters 
more  than  warfare. 

Brunehilde  ! 

Ancient  and  beautiful. 

Beautiful  alike  in  thine  age  and  in  thy  youth. 

Fairest  woman  of  France,  and  fairest  woman  who  ever 
sat  on  an  earthly  throne. 

The  daughter  of  a king,  the  wife  of  a king  ; outraged, 
degraded,  murdered  by  a king  ; outraged,  degraded,  mur- 
dered, unavenged  ! And  still,  oh,  sons  and  daughters  of 
France — my  brothers  and  sisters — ye  can  smile  ! 

Though  twelve  centuries  have  come  and  gone  since 
Clotaire’s  shameless  men  tied  her,  by  hand  and  wrist,  to 
the  heels  of  a wild  horse,  and  laughed  to  see  the  frenzied 
brute  dash  over  the  fair  soil  of  France,  staining  it  with  her 
blood  and  strewing  it  with  her  entrails,  time  has  not  yet 
erased  the  crimson  record  from  the  world’s  great  tablets. 

And  you  who  shudder  at  this  mention — how  much  bet- 
ter are  you  than  vile,  red-handed  Clotaire  ? What  poet  or 
artist  among  you  has  done  for  her  that  which  was  so  gladly 
done  for  Cleopatra  and  Helen  ? And  yet  Brunehilde  was 
greater  than  either  of  these.  Greater  and  lovelier. 

Her  mighty  shade,  uncomforted,  still  goes  sweeping  on 


152 


MV  QUEEiY^  BRUNEHILDE, 


through  space,  and  if  those  pale,  thin  lips  could  speak, 
and  you  could  hear,  the  awful  word  which  would  reach 
your  ears  would  be,  “ Blood  !”  No  wonder.  She,  Brune- 
hilde,  unavenged,  unsung,  forgotten— and  so  many  lesser 
women  deified  ! 

While  I was  still  but  a lisping,  prattling  boy,  her  sad 
story  filled  me  witli  sorrow,  compassion,  and  awe.  How- 
ever often  it  was  told  to  me  I wept.  Deeply  that  dark, 
horrible  recital  sank  into  my  boyish  soul,  and  there  the 
wound  which  it  left  will  stay  forever. 

Childhood  merged  into  youth,  and  youth  into  manhood, 
but  the  merging  brought  me  no  relief.  Brunehilde  and  her 
woful  wrongs  still  filled  all  my  thoughts,  and  the  horror 
and  sorrow  increased  with  my  years. 

People  bade  me  put  the  memory  of  the  sweet  queen  out 
of  my  life,  and  I bade  the  people  be  silent. 

Brunehilde  !”  exclaimed  a crone  one  day,  a Avoman  so 
old  that  no  one  could  even  guess  when  she  was  born  ; 
“Brunehilde!  It  is  ever  Brunehilde  with  thee,  son,  and 
none  other.  Living  women  have  no  place  in  your  heart, 
and  yet  so  many  bright-eyed,  round-limbed  daughters  of 
France  yearn  for  your  lightest  smile.” 

I pushed  the  hag  aside  and  went  my  way. 

“ Brunehilde  should  reward  you,”  she  shouted  after  me. 
“ In  all  her  kingdom  she  never  had  subject  so  faithful  and 
devoted.  Even  King  Sigebert  less  deserved  her  favor.” 

Dazed  by  the  woman’s  venomous  words,  I staggered  and 
my  breath  stopped.  Then  the  sound  of  voices  and  the 
noise  of  wheels  restored  me,  and  I hastened  from  the  tu- 
mult of  the  city  to  the  peaceful  silence  of  the  open 
country. 

But  go  where  I would,  I could  not  leave  the  crone’s 
words  behind  me. 

Why  did  slie  so  upbraid  and  taunt  me  ? 

Could  I be  happy  with  some  soft  woman’s  love  ? Poor 
fool  ! Clotaire,  the  king,  Brunehilde’s  murderer,  was  my 
ancestor!  Some  portion  of  tliat  dreadful  monster’s  blood 
was  in  iny  veins.  What  had  I to  do  with  love  ? My  life 
slum  Id  be  a sacred  sacrifice  to  the  great  queen.  Because 
of  the  sorrows  of  her  life,  no  joy  should  enter  mine.  No 
woman’s  hands  or  lips  should  touch  mine  ; no  one  Avom- 
an’s  eyes  should  glow  with  tenderness  at  my  coming,  or 
fill  with  tears  wlien  I went  away.  If  I could  atone  for 
Clotaire’s  wrong  by  living  or  by  dying  for  Brunehilde  and 
so  bring  peace  to  her  great  soul,  the  atonement  should  be 


MY  QUEEN,  BRUNEHILDE, 


153 


made,  the  peace  should  be  hers.  I swore  it,  and  I called 
upon  God  and  the  angels  to  hear  and  register  the  vow. 

Out,  out  I went  among  the  fields  and  hills,  and  in  a lone 
and  desolate  valley  I threw  myself  upon  the  ground  and 
hid  my  face  in  the  dead  moss. 

And  then,  as  in  my  youth,  thoughts  of  her  made  me 
weep. 

What  was  the  sound  that  suddenly  checked  my  grief 
and  made  me  afraid  to  lift  my  head  ? There  wasastrange, 
faint  rushing  through  the  air,  as  if  the  gloomy  valley  was 
filling  with  shadow's  from  the  spirit  land.  There  w^as  also 
the  dreamy,  indistinct  tinkling  of  distant  bells,  and  the 
softer,  sweeter  music  of  far-aw^ay  voices.  An  odor  which 
was  richer  and  rarer  than  ever  came  from  the  rose-gardens 
of  Iran  filled  my  nostrils. 

Tiien  some  one  spoke  to  me. 

Look  up  and  tell  me  why  you  w^eep.” 

Never  before  did  I hear  so  tender  a voice,  and  my  tears 
started  afresh,  as  I raised  my  head  to  obey  it. 

I looked,  but  the  words  I would  have  said  hung  on  my 
lips. 

Before  me  w'as  a w'oman — a phantom  from  the  world  of 
shadows,  but  oh  ! so  beautiful  ! 

Take  the  best  from  all  the  forms  and  faces  wTich  art 
and  poesy  have  w’rought,  and,  though  they  were  united  in 
one  w^oman,  her  beauty  would  have  been  transcended  by 
my  celestial  questioner. 

For  a moment  Brunehilde  w^as  forgotten,  and  I was 
thinking  how  even  I should  have  loved  this  radiant  one, 
had  slie  come  to  me  in  her  life. 

She  read  my  thought  and  smiled. 

“ Tell  me  for  wdiom  you  w^eep.  ” 

For  Brunehilde,’’  I whispered. 

“ I am  Brunehilde,”  she  said  ; ‘‘  and  you  are  first  of  Clo- 
taire’s  race  wdio  ever  shed  a tear  for  me.  Nay,  more  than 
that — no  other  man  of  France  has  sorrow^ed  for  my  woes 
and  wu'ongs.  No  heart,  save  yours,  has  grieved  for  me 
since  my  lord,  good  King  Sigebert,  fell  before  the  assas- 
sins of  vile  Fredegonda,  King  Chilperic’s  mistress.  And, 
gentle  youth,  the  compassionate  devotion  of  one  true  man 
compensates  all  Brunehilde's  w'rongs.  You  have  w^ell  re- 
paid me  for  your  bloody  kinsman’s  crimes.  Do  one  thing 
yet.  Let  sorrowing  cease.  Feel  no  more  pain  for  me. 
Live  not  alone.  Let  some  fair,  living  w^oman  be  the  shrine 
at  which,  henceforth,  you  worship.  Brunehilde  bids  you 


154 


M y QUEEN,  BRUNEHILDE. 


love,  and  call  some  sweet  woman  wife.  Think  no  more  of 
the  wrongs  foul  Clotaire  did.  Forget  your  oath  of  sacri- 
fice to  me  ; that  oath  is  well  redeemed.” 

“Sweet  queen,”  I said,  “ there  was  no  place  in  my  heart 
before  you  came  to-day  for  anyone  but  you.  And  now, 
great  phantom,  I love  you.” 

“ But  you  cannot  call  me  wife,  dear  youth.” 

“ Yet  I can  love  none  else.  So  I must  go  to  my  grave 
wifeless.” 

“Was  ever  heart  of  man  so  true  before?”  she  cried,  and 
then  she  smiled  and  vanished. 

I had  seen  her.  How  happy  I was  ! Brunehilde,  the 
great  queen,  had  come  to  me  in  all  her  wonderful  beauty. 

Not  one  of  her  words  or  smiles  would  I ever  forget. 
Surely  no  other  man  was  ever  so  favored. 

I went  back  to  the  city,  and  those  who  liad  known  me 
before  marvelled  at  the  change  in  me. 

Songs  and  smiles  were  ever  upon  my  lips  now,  and  the 
dulness  of  sorrow  was  gone  from  my  eyes. 

“Surely,”  the  people  said,  “ tliis  man  is  in  love.  He  has 
forgotten  to  grieve  and  mourn  for  Brunehilde.” 

Brunehilde  ! The  name  now  sent  the  red  blood  into  my 
cheeks  wlienever  1 heard  it.  1 no  longer  dared  speak  it — • 
scarcely  dared  think  it— save  when  I was  alone. 

1 loved  her,  phantom  as  she  was,  and  though  my  love 
was  hopeless  it  made  me  Inappy. 

Days  came  and  went,  weeks  lengthened  into  months, 
and  then  came  the  end  of  the  year. 

There  was  snow  on  the  ground  and  the  chill  of  winter 
was  in  the  air.  Frost  crystals  glittered  in  the  leafless  trees 
and  the  streams  were  locked  with  ice: 

Alone  in  the  fields  I walked  with  downcast  liead  but 
not  with  downcast  heart.  Brunehilde,  my  queen,  reigned 
there,  though  all  the  rest  of  France  had  forgotten  her. 

As  I walked  1 heard  a rustling  in  the  air  again,  the  same 
that  I heard  when  Brunehilde  came.  Still  I saw  nothing, 
whichever  way  I looked. 

Tiien  a voice  said  : 

“ Go  once  more  to  the  valley.” 

Again  I looked  about  me,  but  there  was  nothing  to  see 
but  the  snow. 

Was  this  a message  from  Brunehilde  ? Was  I to  see  her 
again  ? 

1 hastened  on,  buoyant  with  hope.  The  snow  was  less 
dreary  now,  and  I quite  forgot  the  wintry  air. 


MY  QUEEN,  BRUNEHILDE,  155 

Even  the  desolate  valley,  when  I came  to  it,  seemed 
more  cheerful  than  when  I last  entered  it. 

On  the  very  spot  where  I flung  myself  down  in  the  moss, 
when  the  venom  of  the  hag  so  nearly  stung  me  to  death,  a 
woman  lay  writhing  in  the  snow. 

When  I first  saw  her  face  I was  startled,  she  was  so  like 
the  murdered  queen  whom  I so  dearly  loved.  Her  form, 
too,  was  much  the  same.  But  it  was  not  Brunehilde.  A 
second  glance  showed  me,  too,  that  my  eyes  had  some- 
what deceived  me.  There  was  less  resemblance  between 
the  two  than  1 had  first  thought. 

The  woman  was  dying. 

“ Who  are  you  ? I asked. 

“ I am  of  Brunehilde’s  race,’’  she  said.  ‘‘  I came  here 
to  die.  She  called  me  hither  from  my  death-bed  in  the 
monastery.  Wait  until  I am  gone.” 

The  pangs  of  dissolution  were  on  her  as  she  spoke.  In 
a moment  she  was  dead. 

Long  I stood  there  and  looked  down  into  that  dead  face. 
Then  I knelt  and  touched  lier  brow  with  my  hand  ; it  was 
as  cold  as  the  snow. 

Brunehilde  and  her  kinswoman  had  met  ; they  were  to- 
gether now.  I wondered  if  they  could  see  me  kneeling 
there  in  the  snow  by  that  lifeless  clay. 

Lifeless ! What  did  I see  ? Color  was  coming  into 
those  wan  cheeks  again  ! The  woman’s  bosom  heaved. 
She  breathed.  Life  was  returning.  Her  hands  moved 
convulsively  and  she  opened  her  eyes. 

She  sprang  to  her  feet.  Mercy  of  heaven  ! Was  I mad  ? 
It  was  not  Brunehilde’s  kinswoman  I saw,  but  Brunehilde 
herself ! 

No  longer  a phantom,  but  a creature  of  flesh  and  blood, 
and  with  her  loveliness  a thousand-fold  increased. 

“ See  what  love  has  done,”  she  said.  “ You  grieved  for 
me  and  then  you  loved  me.  Now  I have  come  to  you.” 

To  me  ! You  have  come  to  me  ! ” I cried. 

“ 1 am  ail  yours  now,”  she  answered.  ‘‘  I would  not  see 
you,  so  tender,  so  loyal,  wasting  your  heart  on  a shadow, 
so  I have  usurped  the  body  of  my  dead  kinswoman,  and 
have  made  it  mine.  I have  come  to  gladden  your  life  and 
to  reward  your  devotion.  Do  you  want  me  ? Shall  I 
stay  ? ” 

Oh  ! my  queen ” 

“ Queen  no  longer,”  she  exclaimed,  “ except  queen  of 
your  heart.  Can  you  not  call  me  by  a sweeter  name  ? ” 


MV  QUEEA\  BRUNEHILDE, 


156 

Brunehilde,  heart’s-queen,  wife  !”  I cried,  and  caught 
her  in  my  arms. 

How  happy  we  were  ! Years  were  no  longer,  now,  than 
days. 

She  never  spoke  of  the  past— the  old,  bitter,  painful 
past — until  our  son  was  born. 

‘‘  How  much  he  is  like  Sigebert’s  son,’'  she  said  ; 

Sigebert’s  son,  whom  Fredegonda  murdered.” 

I sighed. 

She  clasped  me  in  her  arms. 

^‘Do  not  think,  dear  heart,”  she  said,  ‘‘that  I am  long- 
ing for  my  lord,  the  king.  He  never  loved  as  you  do,  and 
I love  you  better  than  I did  him  Only  memory  went 
back  to  the  old  days  when  I was  Queen  Brunehilde.” 

“You  are  Queen  Brunehilde  still,”  I answered,  “and  so 
you  will  always  be.” 

She  smiled,  and  kissed  me. 

“ Only  in  your  true,  loyal  heart,”  she  said. 

Sweet  wife,  so  wondrous  tender.  How  could  you  have 
ever  been  so  brave  and  dauntless?  And  how  could  even 
brutal  Clotairc  have  inflicted  such  wanton  torture  upon 
one  so  lovely  ? 

The  years  passed,  all  too  quickly,  until  three  children 
had  blessed  our  love. 

In  all  this  time  no  cloud  had  come  save  the  fear,  which 
was  always  in  my  heart,  that  some  day  my  beautiful  Brune- 
hilde would  be  snatched  from  me,  and  1 would  again  be 
desolate.  And  how  pitiable  a desolation,  after  so  sweet  a 
life  with  such  a woman  ! 

One  day  she  met  me  with  a look  of  dread  upon  her  face. 

“Oh!  husband!”  she  cried,  in  bitterest  anguish,  “the 
end  has  come,  and  I must  go  from  you.” 

“What  do  you  mean  ?” 

“ Clotaire  is  coming  for  me.  Once  more  must  I die  at 
the  heels  of  the  wild  horse,  and  once  more  must  I see  my 
children — your  children  and  mine,  this  time,  not  Sigebert’s 
— killed  under  my  helpless  eyes.” 

Wild  with  nameless  dread  and  horror  I asked  what  she 
meant. 

“When,  as  your  wife,  I came  to  you,”  she  said,  “it  was 
upon  pain  of  losing  heaven,  except,  at  the  end  of  ten  years, 

I once  more  submitted  to  Clotaire’s  insults.  The  time  has 
come,  and  my  compact  must  be  kept.” 

“ And  you  did  this  for  me  ?” 

“Yes.  Why  not?  Half  of  love’s  sweetness  is  in  the 


MV  QUEEJV,  BRUNEHILDE. 


157 


very  pain  it  brings.  You  loved  me  as  the  phantom  of 
Sigebert’s  wife  ; you  have  loved  me  still  more  as  your  wife. 
And  I have  loved  you,  too.  I love  you  now — none  the  less 
because  I suffer  death  for  you.  You  will  soon  come  to  me. 
We  shall  be  happy  in  heaven.  There  Clotaire’s  vengeance 
cannot  follow  us.” 

And  is  there  nothing  I can  do  to  save  you  ? ” 

Yes.” 

What  is  it  ? ” 

I will  not  tell  vou.” 

^‘Why?” 

‘‘Because — great  as  the  sacrifice  is,  you,  in  your  blind 
love  for  me,  would  make  it.” 

“ Tell  me,  quickly,  I beseech  you,  and  let  me  save  you,” 

“No.  I love  you  too  well  for  that.” 

In  my  agony  I smiled. 

“ Whose  love  is  blindest  ?”  I asked. 

She  kissed  me. 

“ Daar  heart,”  she  said,  “our  love  is  alike,  and  so  we 
are  safe.  Clotaire’s  second  death-pang  will  be  but  mo- 
mentary, and  then  our  bliss  goes  on  forever.” 

“And  I shall  die  with  you,  then?”  I asked,  joyously. 

“ If  you  wish  it.” 

Once  again  we  were  clasped  in  each  other’s  arms,  and 
for  the  last  time  in  our  happy  home. 

“ Farewell ! ” she  said.  “ I leave  you  now.  Go  quickly 
to  the  valley,  and  stay  till  I come.” 

Then  there  was  a crash,  and  our  home  was  a chaos  of 
ruins.  She  and  the  children  were  gone. 

Soon  I reached  the  valley.  It  was,  more  than  ever, 
desolate.  Then  a veil  seemed  to  be  lifted,  and  I saw 
plainly.  There  was  Clotaire,  my  murderous  ancestor,  and 
all  his  army. 

The  pitiless  king  stood  with  folded  arms,  watching  the 
slaugiiter  of  our  children — Brunehilde’s  and  mine  ! I at- 
tempted to  start  forward  but  I could  not  stir.  Some  un- 
seen power  was  holding  me  fast. 

There  stood  Brunehilde,  forced  by  Clotaire  to  see  her 
children  murdered.  Then  her  naked  form  was  flung  to 
the  ground  and  once  again,  by  hair  and  wrist,  they  tied 
her  to  the  heels  of  the  wild  horse. 

Again  I tried  to  spring  forward.  She  should  be  saved  ! 
My  wife,  my  queen.  Brunehilde  ! Red  Clotaire  should 
be  robbed  of  his  foul  triumph. 

Alas  ! I could  not  move  ! 


AIY  QUEEN,  BRUNEHILDE, 


158 

Then  the  King’s  villains  goaded  the  wild  horse  with 
their  knives  and  swords  until  he  could  no  longer  be  held. 


The  frenzied  brute  breaks  loose  from  them,  as  he  did 
twelve  hundred  years  ago,  and  darts  across  the  plain. 

Straight  toward  me,  the  wild  horse  comes,  dragging 
Brunehilde  behind  him.  Another  moment  and  I shall  be 
run  down  ! 

His  forefeet  strike  my  breast ! 

I fall ! 

I am  crushed  ! 

Brunehilde  clasps  me  in  her  arms ! Her  lips  meet 
mine!  Oh!  God!  I die  ! 


THREE  AND  ONE 


They — the  three — are  dead  ; and  so  their  names  are  a 
sacred  secret.  Even  to  tell  when  they  lived,  were  cruel 
unkindness — they  suffered  so  ! To  tell  what  they  were, 
and  how  she  came  into,  and  spoiled,  all  their  lives,  is  quite 
enough. 

She  still  lives. 

Though  the  jetty  splendor  has  forsaken  her  hair,  and  it 
has  become  as  burnished  silver,  the  old  fatal  lustre  is  still 
in  her  eyes,  and  the  old  fatal  beauty  is  still  in  her  form 
and  face. 

Men  still  tremble  at  sight  of  her,  and  they  still  shudder 
when  they  come  to  know  her. 

The  world  has  held,  and  still  holds,  many  like  her ; and 
the  pain  and  harm  which  such  a woman  brings  into  her 
age,  in  a single  hour,  is  often  greater  than  all  the  good 
which  Christ  and  Siddartha  did. 

Her  father  was  a peasant,  and  she  was  his  only  daughter. 

From  the  hour  of  her  birth,  until  she  attained  full 
womanhood,  she  lived  in  sight  of  the  spires  and  steeples 
of  Rouen. 

Through  all  her  childhood  and  maidenhood  she  was 
spotless,  pure,  and  innocent,  with  the  purity  and  innocence 
of  ignorance.  She  knew  of  no  sin,  and  so  committed  none. 
No  appetite  was  awakened  within  her,  save  for  water,  air, 
and  wholesome  food.  She  had  only  the  birds,  the  beasts, 
and  her  rude  toys  for  playmates  ; and  her  only  companion 
was  her  fatlier. 

While  she,  in  her  simple  blamelessness,  played  with  her 
pets  and  her  dolls,  in  her  frugal  home,  under  the  watchful 
eye  of  her  devout  father,  the  three — those  who  are  dead — 
were  at  the  university  pondering  the  great  problems  of  life. 

They  would  soon  end  their  school-days,  for  commence- 
ment was  close  at  hand  ; and  they  looked  forward  with 


i6o 


THREE  AND  ONE, 


grave  interest  to  the  time  when  they  should  take  their 
places  in  the  great  world. 

The  youngest  was  a poet,  and  his  circumstances  were 
such  that  he  could,  if  he  wished,  dream  on  forever  with 
no  thought  of  the  needs  with  which  most  poets  are  dis- 
tracted. He  was  delicate,  sensitive,  most  exquisitely  or- 
ganized, and  an  extremist  in  beauty-worship.  His  teachers 
dreaded  to  think  how  rough  his  dainty  nature  would  find 
the  pathway  of  life,  unless  loving  hands  smoothed  it  for 
him  at  every  step. 

The  second  was  ruddier  and  bolder.  He  was  fond  of 
social  enjoyment  and  boisterous  fun.  No  two  classmates 
were  ever  more  unlike  than  he  and  the  poet.  The  one 
delighted  in  that  from  which  the  other  shrank.  Like  his 
father,  he  was  most  interested  in  the  laws  of  his  country  ; 
so  he  chose  the  practice  of  law  for  his  profession. 

But  the  sweetest  and  most  lovable  of  the  three  was  the 
only  son  of  a poor  widow.  His  whole  life  had  been  sur- 
rounded with  privation  and  poverty,  but  he  seemed  all  the 
happier  because  of  the  struggles  he  had  had  to  make.  He 
had  even  to  earn  his  way  through  the  university.  Warm- 
hearted, even-tempered,  full  of  charity  and  sympathy  for 
everyone,  he  almost  immediately  became  the  idol  of  the 
whole  school.  Had  he  been  ambitious,  he  could,  with  his 
beauty,  magnetism,  and  eloquence,  have  won  whatever 
place  in  life  he  wanted  ; but  he  believed  that,  as  a clergy- 
man, he  could  best  serve  his  fellowmen. 

And  so,  they  were  variously  moved,  by  the  approaching 
end  of  their  school-days. 

The  brightness  and  security  of  the  poet’s  future  seemed 
fully  assured,  for  he  would  be  simply  leaving  the  university 
for  the  luxuries  of  his  magnificent  home  ; and  the  world,  too, 
was  already  pausing  to  listen  to  the  sweetness  of  his  music. 

As  for  the  lawyer,  there  was  a place  for  him  in  the  great 
offices  of  his  father ; and  fame  and  fortune  were  his,  as 
soon  as  he  would  claim  them. 

For  the  clergyman,  the  outlook  was  less  cheering.  The 
humbleness  of  his  choice  made  his  a thornier  way,  and  he 
had  to  make  his  whole  future  for  himself. 

The  peasant’s  daughter,  a maiden  of  sixteen,  was  still 
playing  at  Rouen  when  the  doors  of  the  university  closed, 
for  the  last  time,  behind  the  three. 

A year  later,  the  poet,  happy  in  the  welcome  which  his 
genius  had  won  for  him,  in  the  world  of  letters,  paid  a visit 
to  some  friends  in  Rouen. 


THREE  AND  ONE, 


i6i 


Strolling  about  in  the  fields  by  himself,  and  deep  in  the 
sweet  mazes  of  some  fanciful  day-dream,  he  suddenly 
paused  to  drink  in  the  rapturous  sounds  which  saluted  his 
ears. 

Unable  to  decide  whether  the  song  which  he  heard 
floated  to  him  from  the  throat  of  some  forest  nymph,  or 
some  genuine  woman  of  flesh  and  blood,  he  bent  his  steps 
in  the  direction  whence  the  sound  came. 

A moment  later,  he  was  peeping  through  the  open  window 
of  an  humble  cottage  at  the  peasant’s  beautiful  daughter. 

Believing  herself  to  be  alone,  her  feet  were  bare  and 
she  was  scarcely  more  than  half  clad. 

She  was  singing  to  a pigeon,  which  sat  upon  one  of  her 
fingers. 

Her  beauty,  and  the  sweetness  of  her  voice,  went 
straight  to  the  young  poet’s  heart.  Fie  loved  her  before 
she  even  knew  of  his  existence.  The  fates  are  most  un- 
kind to  let  such  people  meet ! 

One  song  followed  another,  and  still  he  watched  her, 
and  listened  to  her,  with  breathless  silence. 

The  sun  was  sinking  and  the  shadows  of  evening  were 
close  at  hand. 

The  peasant,  returning  from  his  day  of  toil  in  the  fields, 
found  his  daughter  sleeping  on  the  floor,  among  her  pets, 
and  the  poet  still  watching  her  through  the  window. 

When  the  old  man’s  hand  was  laid  upon  the  young  man’s 
shoulder,  the  latter  simply  pointed  to  the  sleeping  girl 
and  asked  who  she  was. 

My  daughter,”  said  the  peasant. 

If  you  will  let  me,  I will  make  her  my  wife,”  was  the 
answer. 

Permission  was  finally  given  the  young  man,  to  woo  the 
lovely  girl,  and  he  profited  by  his  opportunities. 

In  form,  face,  and  voice,  she  was  the  very  incarnation  of 
all  his  dreams  and  fancies  ; the  beautiful  ideal  whom  he 
had  always  been  told  he  would  never  meet.  He  was  too 
much  in  love  with  her  to  judge  her  spiritually  and  men- 
tally; but  no  man  ever  passes  judgment  upon  the  soul  of 
a beautiful  woman  until,  as  his  wife,  she  betrays  her  shal- 
lowness. 

To  her,  he  not  only  opened  a new  life,  but  he  was  a new 
life.  The  blissful  future  they  were  about  entering,  as  he 
described  it,  seemed  sweeter  to  her  than  the  heaven  her 
father  had  so  much  talked  of. 

Love,  to  her,  at  first,  was  a word  without  a definition, 

II 


THREE  AND  ONE. 


162 

but  it  gradually  unfolded  itself  to  her,  and  at  last  she  be- 
gan to  comprehend  its  meaning. 

With  his  first  kiss  upon  her  lips,  she  was  thrilled  with  new 
emotions  which  were  half  ecstasy  and  half  dread.  Then, 
all  at  once,  she  found  herselt  rejoicing  whenever  he 
came,  and  disposed  to  weep  each  time  he  went  away.  His 
eyes  entranced  her,  and  there  was  rapture  in  the  lightest 
touch  of  his  hand.  Still,  to  her,  all  was  yet  vague  and 
indefinable.  Her  woman’s  instinct  told  her  much,  but  the 
things  concerning  which  she  was  left  in  doubt  were  those 
she  most  w\anted  to  know  about. 

In  a month  she  became  his  wife.  In  that  one  short 
month  she  had  grown  from  a child  into  a woman,  and  her 
father  sighed  to  see  the  change. 

The  young  lover  had  rushed  into  his  marriage  with  the 
peasant’s  daughter  without  consulting,  or  even  informing, 
his  family  ; and  they,  naturally  enough,  resented  his  rash- 
ness. So  he  and  his  bride  spent  their  honeymoon  in 
Rouen,  in  the  household  of  his  friends. 

He  wrote  no  longer.  His  muse  seemed  resentful  be- 
cause he  had  taken  a new  goddess  into  his  heart,  and  as 
the  months  went  on,  the  world  waited  in  vain  for  a new 
poem  from  his  pen. 

A poet’s  nature,  if  he  be  a true  poet,  is  like  a woman’s. 
Love  is  its  whole  existence.  He  sings  until,  in  life,  he 
finds  the  ideal  whom  his  soul  created,  and  who  has  always 
dwelt  in  his  heart.  Then  life  itself  becomes  a poem,  and 
all  song  dies  within  him. 

A year  passed- — a year  of  uninterrupted  bliss — and  the 
two  were  lovers  still.  They  had  no  life  apart  from  each 
other,  and  seemed  to  have  forgotten  the  outer  world. 

Then  the  awakening  came. 

The  little  store  of  money  which  they  had  had  was  ex- 
hausted, and  he  was  obliged  to  write  for  assistance,  to  his 
angry  parents. 

Their  answer  crushed  him.  He  was  upbraided  for  dar- 
ing to  forsake  everyone  and  everything  for  a low  peasant 
girl,  and  was  informed  that  unless  he  gave  her  up  instant- 
ly, his  family  would  renounce  him  forever.  No  member 
of  his  family,  he  was  further  informed,  would  ever  in  any 
way  recognize  his  wife,  and,  while  he  continued  living  with 
her,  no  money  would  be  sent  him,  even  though  he  starved. 

This  letter  was  a shock  from  which  he  never  recovered. 
In  their  blind  eagerness  to  win  him  back  to  them,  his  fam- 
ily had  done  that  which,  with  so  delicate  and  sensitive  a nat- 


THREE  A HD  ONE. 


163 

lire,  could  result  in  but  one  way.  His  heart  was  broken, 
and  even  the  courage,  tenderness,  and  devotion  of  liis 
beautiful  wife  lacked  potency  sufficient  to  heal  the  wound. 

Within  three  days  he  died  in  her  arms,  and  it  was 
thought  at  first  that  her  reason  had  gone  with  his  soul. 

Fler  grief  was  deep  and  lasting  ; siie  never  wholly  ceased 
to  mourn  her  poet  husband. 

No  woman  can  live  upon  such  terms  of  tender  intimacy 
with  any  man  and  not  imbibe  some  of  his  traits.  Hers  was 
an  unusually  plastic  and  impressible  nature,  and  he  came 
to  her  before  she  had  developed  any  methods  of  thought  ; 
and  so  his  influence  extended  through  all  of  her  life.  He 
had  seemed  to  exhale  purity  with  his  every  breath,  and  she 
would  have  been  common  clay  indeed  had  not  the  coarse 
tendencies,  which  were  her  natural  inheritance,  been  some- 
what refined  and  subdued  through  contact  with  him. 

Rouen  was  now  so  full  of  sad  memories  for  her  that  she 
soon  left  it  for  Paris.  Then,  too,  she  could  best  earn  her 
livelihood  in  the  capital. 

The  year  which  followed  her  husband’s  death  was  full 
of  misery  and  bitterness.  Many  a time,  before  it  ended, 
she  would  have  sacrificed  her  life,  but  for  the  fear  that  it 
would  lessen  her  chances  of  being  reunited  with  her  hus- 
band in  heaven. 

One  day  she  saw,  in  a scrap  torn  from  some  newspaper, 
the  announcement  that  her  husband’s  father  was  dead. 

For  a year  she  had  been  starving  ; why,  now^,  should  she 
not  have  her  husband’s  share  of  his  father’s  property  ? 
Surely,  it  was  her  lawful  right. 

But  she  was  alone,  and  friendless.  She  could  do  nothing 
with  that  proud  family,  and  with  a sigh,  she  was  about 
giving  the  idea  up  when,  suddenly,  she  thought  of  one  of 
her  husband’s  classmates  at  the  university,  one  of  the  three 
friends. 

He  was  now  a rich  and  powerful  lawyer.  Would  he  not 
help  her,  for  the  sake  of  his  dead  friend,  her  husband  ? 
Perhaps  he  would. 

She  was  awed  with  the  magnificence  of  the  great  law- 
yer’s offices,  and  sent  in  her  card  with  much  trepidation. 

He  saw  her  almost  instantly,  and  welcomed  her  heartily. 
When  he  had  heard  her  story  he  was  deeply  moved,  and 
assured  her  that  he  would  give  the  matter  his  personal  at- 
tention. He  seemed  so  sanguine  of  success  that  hope  ran 
mountain  high  with  her. 

She  was  grateful  for  the  friendship  which  he  professed, 


164 


THREE  AND  ONE. 


blit  she  never  once  thought  that  she  had  awakened  within 
him  anything  else  than  friendship  ; though  the  fact  was 
that  the  lawyer  was  already  in  love  with  the  wife  of  his 
dead  friend. 

The  sorrow  she  had  known,  since  the  death  of  her  hus- 
band, had  made  her  more  beautiful  than  ever.  The  quiet 
air  of  sadness  about  her,  and  the  sweet  gravity  of  her 
perfect  face,  gave  her  a kind  of  loveliness  even  less  resist- 
ible than  her  girlish  beauty. 

Lawyers,  generally,  are  more  noted  for  other  attributes 
than  for  morality,  and  the  one  to  whom  the  lovely  widow 
had  appealed  for  assistance  was  much  like  the  mass  of  his 
profession. 

Since  leaving  the  university  he  had  lived  a life  of  the 
utmost  gayety  and  abandon. 

One  woman  after  another  had  amused  him,  only  to  find 
her  place  taken,  speedily,  by  some  new  favorite. 

At  length,  tiring  of  them  all,  he  had  married  the  pretty 
daughter  of  a rich  banker,  whose  sole  heiress  she  was. 

But  after  a month  she  also  wearied  him. 

It  was  at  this  time  that  the  wife  of  his  dead  friend  came. 

From  the  first,  he  fully  realized  that  she  was  the  only 
woman  he  had  ever  loved,  and  he  cursed  himself  because 
he  was  married. 

It  made  no  difference  to  him  because  she  was  only  the 
daughter  of  a common  peasant.  Her  beauty,  grace,  and 
refinement  was  ample  compensation  for  that. 

He  loved  her,  too,  and  that  was  enough,  any  way. 

Since  he  was  already  married,  he  could  not  offer  her 
matrimony,  and  there  was  something  about  her  which 
satisfied  him  that  she  would  accept  of  nothing  else.  In 
fact,  there  was  a strong  probability  that  she  would  even 
refuse  that — she  was  so  absorbed  in  her  devotion  for  her 
dead  husband. 

Have  her  he  must,  in  some  way.  He  had  begun  to  feel 
that  he  could  not  endure  life  without  her. 

Sleeping  or  waking,  her  name  was  constantly  upon  his 
lips,  and,  more  often  than  he  was  willing  to  admit,  even  to 
himself,  he  found  himself  writing  the  same  dear  name 
upon  his  broad  sheets  of  law-paper. 

He  called  upon  her  husband’s  family,  and  almost  immedi- 
ately her  husband’s  share  of  the  estate  was  paid  over  to  her. 

This  placed  her  in  such  comfortable  circumstances,  that 
the  lawyer  feared  that  it  would  hinder  him  in  his  attempts 
to  win  her  heart. 


THREE  AND  ONE 


165 

Still  he  found  some  excuse,  every  day,  for  calling  upon 
her  ; and  he  showed  her  every  attention  which  gallantry 
and  ingenuity  could  devise. 

At  last  he  flung  himself  at  her  feet,  in  a moment  of 
passionate  desperation,  and  offered  her  his  heart. 

He  did  not  mean  to  do  so  base  a thing,  but  he  was  mad 
with  love,  and  so,  for  the  time,  morally  demented. 

She,  of  course,  knew  nothing  of  his  wife,  and  considered 
his  proposal  in  every  way  honorable  and  worthy. 

Her  heart,  she  told  him,  was  in  the  grave  with  her 
dead  husband,  and  she  doubted  if  it  would  ever  again  be 
hers  to  bestow.  If  it  was,  he  should  have  it,  since  there 
was  no  other  living  man  whom  slie  so  much  respected. 

Moved  by  a sudden  impulse,  he  caught  her  in  his  arms 
and  kissed  her.  At  the  first  touch  of  his  lips,  all  her 
dormant  womanhood  was  aroused,  and,  faint  and  bewil- 
dered, she  sank  upon  his  breast. 

A moment  later,  when  she  had  recovered  herself,  he 
repeated  his  proposition  of  marriage,  and  was  accepted. 

He  begged  her  not  to  keep  him  long  waiting  for  her 
sweet  companionship,  so  she  asked  for  only  a month's 
delay.  Reluctantly,  he  granted  it. 

At  the  end  of  that  time  they  went  to  a quiet  church, 
where  the  marriage-service  was  read  privately,  and  they 
were  pronounced  man  and  wife. 

He  fitted  up  an  elegant  house  to  which  he  took  her, 
where  they  spent  the  most  of  their  time. 

For  three  months  they  lived  together  as  husband  and 
wife,  and  she  was  beginning  to  love  him. 

At  the  end  of  the  fourth  month,  she  discovered  the 
truth. 

She  moved  about  the  house,  in  a dazed  way,  awaitingthe 
return  of  the  man  whom  she  had  supposed  was  her  hus- 
band. She  was  so  overwhelmed  with  her  shame  and  deg- 
radation that  she  could  not  decide  what  to  do.  She 
dreaded,  yet  longed  for,  the  return  of  the  guilty  cause  of 
her  grief. 

When  he  came,  he  saw  at  a glance  what  had  happened  ; 
and,  proud  and  haughty  though  he  was,  he  flung  himself 
at  the  feet  of  the  peasant’s  daughter,  and  begged  that  she 
would  forgive  him. 

‘‘Why  have  you  done  me  this  wrong  ?”  she  cried,  with- 
out heeding  his  supplication. 

“Because,”  he  gasped,  “I  loved  you  so  much  that  it 
made  me  blind.” 


i66 


THREE  AND  ONE, 


“ And  I was  beginning  to  love  yon,  too  ! ” she  murmured. 
“Oh  ! God  ! what  a vile  thing  you  have  made  me  ! ” 

He  confessed  all  and  employed  all  his  eloquence  in  pas- 
sionate argument  against  her  scruples  ; but  she  was  im- 
movable. 

The  pure  teachings  and  sweet  philosophy  of  the  young 
poet,  who  had  first  taught  her  that  she  was  a woman,  re- 
fused to  be  reasoned  aw^ay. 

She  felt,  now,  that  her  dead  husband  was  lost  to  her  for- 
ever. Her  second  marriage  had  been,  all  along,  as  a wall 
raised  up  between  her  and  the  dead  ; but  she  had  believed, 
in  a strange,  vague  way,  that  his  soul  vrould  forgive  her 
that  sacrilege.  But  this  supposed  second  marriage  was  no 
marriage,  and,  sullied  and  profaned  as  she  was,  she  felt 
that  her  faithlessness  with  the  dead  had  even  cost  her 
heaven. 

In  a single  instant,  her  whole  nature  changed.  Ven- 
geance and  hatred  usurped  the  place  of  love  and  gentle- 
ness. She  was  as  harsh  and  immovable  as  those  brave, 
fierce  women  of  early  France  wdio,  on  the  battlefield,  struck 
dowm  their  enemies  with  one  arm,  while  they  held  their 
babes  with  the  other. 

She  looked  dowm,  scornfully,  upon  the  man  at  her  feet. 

Suddenly  she  saw  her  course  clearly,  and  bade  the  man 
who  had  dishonored  her,  rise. 

He  did  not  understand  the  smile  he  saw  on  her  lips,  and, 
believing  that  he  W’as  forgiven,  w^ould  have  clasped  her  to 
his  heart. 

Quietly  she  pushed  him  back. 

“Wait"  a moment,”  she  said.  “ Sit  down  in  this  chair 
until  I return.” 

Wonderingly  he  obeyed  her. 

She  was  gone  less  than  a minute,  and  when  she  came 
back,  a dagger  lay  concealed  in  her  bosom. 

She  stood  straight  before  him,  and  gave  him  the  most  in- 
definable look  he  ever  saw  upon  her  face. 

With  many  misgivings  he  waited  for  her  to  speak. 

Presently  her  lips  moved,  and  he  bowed  his  head  to 
listen. 

“ This  foul  thing  you  have  done,”  she  said,  “ was  so  mean 
a trick  that  the  lowest  rake  would  have  disdained  to  play 
it  upon  his  most  despised  mistress.  You  have  robbed  me 
of  my  purity  and  of  the  right  to  love  the  memory  of  my 
dead  husband.  And  you  say  that  you  have  done  this  thing 
for  love  ! I am  made  viler  than  the  vilest  woman  in  the 


THREE  AND  ONE, 


167 


streets  of  Paris,  and  all  for  love  ! Forgive  me  if  I seem  to 
doubt  you,  what  you  say  seems  such  a lie  ! There  was  much 
for  which  I owed  you  gratitude  and  respect  ; you  were  fast 
winning  my  dead  husband’s  place  in  my  heart ; but  I am 
glad  that  I found  this  thing  out,  before  you  had  stolen  all 
that  was  his.  This  crime  against  me  is  not  so  great  as  the 
crime  against  the  dead.  It  is  that  which  I now  avenge  ! ” 

And  she  drew  her  dagger  and  plunged  it  into  his  heart. 

As  she  stood  there,  watching  the  pallor  of  death  come 
upon  the  face  of  the  man  whose  life  had  answered  her 
demand  for  vengeance,  a single  tear  glistened  in  one  of 
her  eyes  and  then  rolled  down  her  cheek. 

It  was  not  for  you,”  she  said  to  the  dead  man  ; ‘Tt  was 
for  the  man  whose  wife  you  have  dishonored.” 

And  then  she  left  her  dead  seducer  alone  with  the 
splendors  which  he  had  lavished  upon  her,  in  the  luxu- 
rious house  where  her  ruin  had  been  consummated. 

To  her,  what  she  had  just  done  was  no  murder,  but  an  act 
of  justice.  Even  his  death  was  not  enough  to  satisfy  her, 
for  his  blood  could  not  wash  away  the  tarnish  upon  her 
womanhood. 

Out  into  the  streets  she  went,  and  sought  quarters  by 
herself. 

Once  more  the  thought  of  suicide  came,  but  now  she 
was  afraid  to  die.  Not  because  she  had  killed  her  be- 
trayer, but  because  she  was  betrayed. 

And  then,  solitude  becoming  unbearable,  she  plunged, 
unrestrainedly,  into  all  the  mirth  and  festivity  which  the 
great  city  afforded. 

Her  beauty  and  grace  made  her  welcome  wherever  she 
chose  to  go,  and  new  suitors  sought  her  favor  every  day. 
But  her  gaiety  was  all  a mask,  for  the  image  of  her  dead 
husband  still  dwelt  in  her  heart,  and  was  a constant  re- 
proach to  her.  Still  she  went  on,  in  her  mad  way,  trying 
to  crush  out  her  sorrow  and  misery  by  the  sacrifice  of 
all  that  bound  lier  to  the  dead. 

Marriage  was  offered  her  a hundred  times,  and  each 
time  it  was  scorned.  Human  hearts  were  playthings  to 
her,  and  her  only  pleasure  was  in  driving  her  Suitors  to 
despair.  She  had  become  as  the  sirens,  whose  charms 
lure  those  who  cannot  resist  them  to  destruction. 

For  two  years  she  lived  in  this  way,  and  then  her  better 
nature  rebelled. 

The  sad,  stern  face  of  the  dead  was  constantly  before  her 
and  she  sought  the  solace  and  consolations  of  religion. 


i68 


THREE  AND  ONE. 


Here,  for  a time,  she  found  peace,  and  the  phantom 
face  of  the  dead  once  more  beamed  with  the  smile  which 
had  charmed  her  girlhood. 

She  sought  out  the  suffering  and  needy,  and  was  a 
ministering  angel  to  the  distressed. 

The  poor  called  her  a saint,  and  declared  that  God  him- 
self had  sent  her  to  them.  They  loved  her  next  to  the 
great  missionary  wdiose  name  seemed  to  be  upon  every 
tongue,  though  each  mention  of  it  brought  back  to  her  all 
the  brightness  of  the  beautiful  past,  which  she  had  lost. 

No  wonder;  he  had -been  her  dead  husband’s  dearest 
friend  in  the  old  days  at  the  university.  He  it  was  who 
had  sacrificed  all  earthly  ambition  to  become  a simple 
clergyman.  He  was  the  widow^’s  son,  the  idol  of  the 
school,  the  last  of  the  three  friends. 

Nothing  had  ever  swerved  him  from  his  holy  purpose, 
until,  one  day,  at  the  bedside  of  a dying  child,  when  he 
looked  into  the  eyes  of  the  woman  who  had  been  the  wife 
of  one  of  his  friends,  and  the  sport  of  the  other. 

When  he  saw  her,  his  heart  went  from  him,  and  it  never 
came  back.  Like  his  two  friends,  he  loved  her  instantly  ; 
and  the  joy  of  his  work  of  mercy  was  gone  for  ever. 

She  was  also  powerfully  moved.  She  believed  now 
that  some  resistless  fatality  had  made  her  the  evil  genius 
of  these  three  men,  and  she  made  no  effort  to  undo  the 
interest  she  had  awakened  in  the  heart  of  the  third  and 
last. 

Her  dead  husband’s  face — that  monitor  which  had  so 
often  swayed  and  influenced  her — came  to  her  no  more. 

She  believed  that  fate  had  thrust  this  last  love  upon  her, 
and  that  no  power  on  earth  could  change  the  inevitable 
results. 

Presently  she  also  found  that  her  heart  was  far  from  in- 
different to  her  new  suitor,  and  that  she  was  beginning  to 
love  him  with  all  the  intense  fervor  of  her  strong,  passion- 
ate nature.  And  so  they  were  married. 

She  felt  that  it  was  his  due  to  know  what  her  life  had 
been,  but  she  found  it  impossible  to  tell  him. 

They  were  married  without  his  knowing  a word  of  her 
history. 

On  their  wedding  night,  in  the  darkness  and  quiet  of 
their  bridal  chamber,  she  told  him  all. 

When  her  awful  story  was  finished  she  waited  for  his 
answer,  but  it  never  came.  He  was  dead  ! 


A CRY  IN  THE  NIGHT 


It  was  early  evening  in  Venice.  The  limpid  waters 
flashed  and  glistened  in  the  yellow  moonlight,  and  their 
gurgling  mingled  dreamily  with  the  song  and  music  which 
seemed  to  be  everywhere. 

June  was  but  just  begun,  and  the  balmy  air  and  the 
soft  weather  had  filled  all  the  lagoons  with  gondolas. 

From  my  balcony  I watched  the  flitting  craft  and  gay 
freight  go  back  and  forth  and  hither  and  thither  across  the 
limits  of  my  vision. 

At  last,  full  of  the  fun,  joy,  and  glory  which  the  revellers 
made,  I called  my  gondolier  and  bade  him  take  me  out 
upon  the  water. 

It  mattered  but  little  which  way  we  went,  so  our  bark 
drifted,  except  when  it  was  necessary  to  dip  an  oar  to  avoid 
a collision. 

All  Venice  seemed  alive  with  the  merry,  half- mad,  riot- 
ous spirit  of  the  sport,  and  at  last  the  water  became  fairly 
thick  with  barges  and  gondolas. 

In  and  out  among  them  we  went,  slowly,  and  from  ev^ery 
side  we  were  hailed  with  jests,  laughter,  bits  of  music  and 
snatches  of  song. 

The  mirth  and  good  will  with  which  we  were  surrounded 
soon  took  the  gloom  and  care  out  of  my  own  sad  heart, 
and  I laughed,  chatted,  and  sang  with  them  all,  and  was  as 
gay  as  the  gayest. 

An  hour  later,  as  we  were  passing  under  a low  balcony, 
an  unseen  woman  suddenly  began  singing  one  of  the 
sweet  songs  of  France,  my  own  dear  country.  The  song 
came  from  a throat  as  flexible  as  a bird’s,  and  as  full  of 
music.  We  paused  beneath  the  balcony,  until  the  song 
was  done  ; then  I threw  the  singer  a handful  of  white  lilies 
and  we  drifted  slowly  away. 

Five  minutes  later  all  the  mirth  and  music  on  the  lagoon 


170 


A CRY  IN  THE  NIGHT, 


Stopped,  instantly,  and  in  its  stead  was  a great  and  awful 
silence.  It  was  caused  by  a wild  cry — a scream  so  terrible 
that  it  seemed  to  curdle  the  blood  in  every  heart — which 
came  from  the  balcony  where  I had  just  thrown  the  lilies. 
One  only  utters  such  a cry  when  in  mortal  agony  or  mor- 
tal terror  ; and  in  this  case  it  seemed  inspired  by  both. 
There  were  blanched  faces  and  staring  eyes  everywhere. 
All  were  listening  for  a repetition  of  the  dreadful  sound. 

Ours  was  the  only  gondola  which  moved.  All  the  others 
seem  enchained  or  spellbound  by  that  awful  cry.  My  gon- 
dolier, as  if  by  instinct,  anticipated  my  wish,  and  sent  our 
graceful  craft  flying  through  the  water  until  we  were  once 
more  under  the  balcony  whence  the  song  and  the  cry 
came.  Clutching  the  low  railing,  I swiftly  drew  myself 
up,  but  there  was  no  one  in  sight.  Through  a window 
before  me,  I heard  a stifled  cry  of  pain,  and  instantly 
rushed  in  the  direction  it  came  from. 

The  lights  were  dim,  but  in  an  inner  room  I saw  the  out- 
line of  a woman’s  form,  and  heard  the  rustle  of  silken 
garments.  A black  shadow  seemed  standing  between  us, 
and  then,  all  at  once,  the  woman  gave  the  awful  cry  again, 
sprang  forward,  and  threw  herself  into  my  arms.  Her 
heart  was  beating  wildly,  and  there  was  agony  and  terror 
in  her  every  movement. 

‘‘  Do  not  move,”  she  said,  do  not  stir.  I am  in  danger, 
but  I shall  be  safe  if  you  hold  me  fast  for  a moment.” 

I clasped  her  closely  to  my  breast,  and  she  flung  her 
arms  tightly  about  my  neck.  Then  I again  saw  the  shadow. 
It  had  a man’s  shape,  but,  as  it  came  forward,  the  fearful 
color  of  its  face  and  the  still  more  hideous  glow  in  its 
eyes  made  it  seem  like  some  fiend  or  vampire. 

It  came  very  close  to  me  and  breathed  its  hot,  scorching 
breath  into  my  face.  From  impulse,  I raised  my  hand  and 
struck  at  it,  but  it  darted  backward  and  laughed  at  me  in  a 
way  which  I shall  never  forget. 

Do  not,”  said-  the  woman,  do  not  move  at  all.  He 
will  go  presently  and  leave  us  alone.” 

I was  wonderfully  puzzled  by  the  strange  scene.  It 
seemed  to  me  too  much  like  the  Middle  Age  diablerie  and 
nonsense  to  be  real.  But  there  was  no  mistake  about  it  ; 
the  woman  was  still  in  my  arms,  panting  with  fright,  and 
yonder,  in  the  middle  of  the  floor,  stood  the  fiend,  or 
whatever  it  was,  grinning  and  hissing  at  me. 

Just  behind  me  I could  hear  the  other  revellers  who  had 
been  with  me  on  the  lagoons.  Recovered  from  their  sur- 


A CRY  IN  THE  NIGHT. 


171 

prise  at  the  alarming  cry,  they  had  also  come  to  investi- 
gate, and  they  were  climbing  over  the  balcony  and  into 
the  room  where  I was  standing  with  the  woman  and  the 
goblin.  My  eyes  were  firmly  fixed  upon  the  latter,  when 
the  others  began  clambering  over  the  balcony.  Suddenly, 
and  without  a sound,  the  sinister  presence  vanished.  How, 
I could  never  tell.  It  is  barely  possible  tiiat  he  darted 
through  some  unseen  door  and  out  along  some  mysterious 
hallway,  or  he  might  have  melted  into  thin  air. 

That  point  I have  never  been  able  to  decide. 

I only  know  that  I was  looking  straight  at  the  eerie 
shape,  when  suddenly  the  space  which  it  had  filled  be- 
came empty. 

Then  the  woman  released  herself  from  my  embrace,  and, 
slipping  her  hand  through  my  arm,  she  stepped  forward 
with  me  to  greet  those  who  were  still  coming  in  through 
the  open  windows  from  over  the  balcony. 

‘‘ I thank  you  all  for  coming,”  she  said,  ‘‘though  the 
danger  is  past  now.  I was  seriously  disturbed  and  greatly 
frightened  by  a most  unwelcome  intruder,  whom  the  gen- 
tleman at  my  side  has  driven  away.  The  object  of  my 
alarm  will  not  return  again,  so  I will  detain  you  no  further 
from  your  sport,  unless  you  will  do  me  the  honor  to  stay 
and  partake  of  my  hospitality.  I will  order  refreshments 
if  you  will  permit  me.” 

But  the  revellers  thanked  her  and  said  no  ; and  soon  I 
again  heard  their  music  and  laughter,  as  the  gondolas 
went  flitting  about  through  the  moonlight. 

When  the  others  had  gone  I,  too,  started  to  leave  the 
woman  at  my  side,  but  she  clung  to  my  arm. 

“Must  you  go?”  she  said,  plaintively;  “can  you  not 
stay  with  me  for  a little  wine  ? ” 

It  was  then,  for  the  first  time,  that  I discovered  how 
beautiful  she  was.  Her  hair  was  long  and  heavy  and 
yellow,  like  spun  gold.  Few  women  ever  have  such  hair  ; 
perhaps  Godiva  and  Brunhilde  were  so  favored,  but  even 
that  is  doubtful.  Her  face,  neck,  and  arms  were  of  perfect 
shape  and  as  white  as  marble,  excepting  a single  flush  of 
red  upon  each  cheek.  But  her  foremost  charm — the  one 
wherein  she  surpassed  all  other  women — lay  in  her  deep, 
black  eyes.  They  were  entirely,  absolutely  black  ; not  the 
kind  of  eyes  which  are  commonly,  by  a polite  fiction,  so 
termed  ; but  there  was  no  trace  of  any  other  color  in 
them,  or  about  them,  save  the  great  milk-white  pearls 
which  served  as  their  settings.  Her  lashes,  too,  were  long 


172 


A CRY  IN  THE  NIGHT, 


and  dusky,  and,  when  she  wished  it,  completely  veiled  the 
wonderful  eyes  which  had  so  powerfully  impressed  me. 
Though  she  was  somewliat  taller  than  women  commonly 
are,  her  exquisite  shapeliness  was  in  no  way  detracted 
from  by  her  height. 

Somehow,  everything  about  her  strangely  moved  and 
affected  me.  There  was  a supple,  cat-like  litheness  which 
marked  her  every  movement,  and  I felt  that  she  was  the 
occult  and  tangible  centre  of  an  atmosphere  of  weird  and 
intangible  mystery.  One  moment  1 would  almost  fear  her, 
and  the  next  moment  I would  find  myself  regretting  that 
I must  ever  go  away  and  leave  her.  Her  glances  thrilled 
and  bewildered  me  like  some  resistless  and  overpowering 
emotion,  and  at  the  lightest  touch  of  her  hand,  or  the 
most  insignificant  rustle  of  her  garments,  every  sense 
tingled  and  every  nerve  quivered. 

The  secret  of  her  strange  power  over  me  was  beyond 
my  guessing,  but  that  it  was  sufficient  to  overcome  any 
resistance  I might  attempt  I was  fully  convinced.  Every 
trick  of  juggler,  snake-charmer,  and  mesmerist  I knew  as 
well  as  I knew  the  history  of  my  own  life  ; but  she  em- 
ployed no  such  method.  I was  in  no  sense  dulled  or 
stupefied  ; on  the  contrary,  my  mental  perceptions  were 
more  than  ordinarily  keen.  Thought  was  in  no  way  hin- 
dered or  impeded,  and  I was  not  only  fully  conscious  of 
the  phenomena  by  which  she  was  controlling  me,  but  I 
was  studying  and  analyzing  it  as  coolly  as  if  it  was,  even 
then,  a matter  of  the  past  instead  of  the  present.  I knew, 
too,  that  she  was  exercising  just  enough  of  her  subtle 
force  to  hold  me  subservient  to  her  will  and  not  a whit 
more.  She,  manifestly,  only  sought  to  enchain  me  suffi- 
ciently to  prevent  my  resisting  her,  but,  at  the  same  time, 
it  was  her  aim  to  leave  me,  as  far  as  possible,  in  a normal 
condition. 

I was  of  the  opinion  that  she  had  something  to  commu- 
nicate to  me  concerning  her  demon  tormentor  which  she 
feared  I might  be  unwilling  to  listen  to.  There  was  much 
in  her  present  manner  which  so  impressed  me,  and  many 
little  circumstances  connected  with  the  departure  of  the 
revellers  now  came  flashing  through  my  mind,  satisfying 
me  that  I had  conjectured  rightly.  The  more  I reflected 
upon  the  strange  events  of  the  night,  the  more  mysterious 
and  wonderful  the  woman  seemed  to  me.  Every  time 
that  she  had  spoken  to  me,  she  had  addressed  me  in 
French,  my  native  language.  To  the  revellers  she  had 


A CRY  IN  THE  NIGHT. 


m 


spoken  in  Italian.  Since  we  were  in  Italy,  and  there  was 
nothing  in  my  personality  to  indicate  that  1 was  a French- 
man, how  had  she  so  accurately  guessed  my  nationality  ? 
Had  she  already  guessed  it  when  I came  to  her  rescue,  or 
even  before,  while  I was  still  floating  under  her  balcony, 
listening  to  her  song? 

For  a brief  time  these  and  similar  thoughts  made  me 
even  more  uncomfortable  than  my  recollections  of  the 
ghoul,  or  goblin,  with  whom  I found  her  wrestling  when 
I first  entered  her  rooms. 

Was  she  a sorceress  ? No  ! I could  swear,  standing 
there  as  I was,  gazing  down  into  her  pure  face,  that  she 
was  an  angel.  My  faith  in  her  was  complete,  and  could 
neither  have  been  shaken  nor  intensified.  My  face  must 
have  betrayed  my  mental  processes,  for  I saw  all  at  once 
that  she  knew  my  thoughts  and  was  satisfied.  She  had 
now  entirely  released  me  from  the  brief  condition  of  re- 
sistlessness, or  thraldom,  in  which  for  a few  seconds  she 
had  held  me  ; and  I was  now  left  the  supreme  master  of 
my  own  will.  Her  beauty,  however,  was  more  potent  than 
the  other  spell  by  which  she  had  controlled  me,  and  I sud- 
denly felt  that  my  whole  heart  was  hers  forever’  She,  too, 
seemed  to  realize  this,  for  a deep  crimson  flush  all  at  once 
spread  over  her  face,  neck,  and  shoulders.  I was  more 
than  ever  charmed  by  this  evidence  of  her  maidenly  mod- 
esty, and  impetuously  extended  my  hands  toward  her. 

For  an  instant  only  she  hesitated  ; then  she  placed  both 
her  hands  in  mine. 

‘‘  Shall  you  stay  and  test  my  wine  ? ” she  whispered, 
confusedly. 

will,’’  I cried.  You  know  I could  not  do  otherwise 
if  I would.  To  look  into  your  eyes,  though,  and  to  hear 
your  voice  is  more  to  me  than  the  rarest  wine  in  the  world. 
When  I heard  you  singing  to-night,  your  music  was  so 
perfect  that  I forgot  Italy  and  thought  that  I was  once 
more  in  my  own  fair  France.  But  I am  glad  to  have  so 
sweet  an  awakening  to  my  dream.  Yes,”  I repeated,  kiss- 
ing her  hands  ; I will  stay  and  drink  your  wine  ; I will 
stay  until  you  send  me  away.” 

Her  color  deepened  and  she  bowed  her  head. 

‘‘And  that,”  she  said,  “will  be  when  you  are  tired  of 
me.” 

She  called  for  wine,  but  we  scarcely  tasted  it,  though  we 
sat  together  in  the  moonlight  until  long  after  the  hour  of 
midnight  was  struck  from  the  clock  towers. 


174 


A CRY  IN  THE  NIGHT. 


Times  unnumbered  a shadow  came  upon  her  face,  and  I 
saw  that  she  was  about  disclosing  something  which  pained 
her,  and  so  each  time  I diverted  her  from  her  purpose,  and 
in  the  end  went  away  without  knowing  what  she  would 
have  said. 

When  I had  stayed  until  I feared  that  the  lateness  of  the 
hour  might  distress  her,  I reluctantly  arose  to  go.  It  was 
then  that  my  ardent  impetuosity  overcame  me  altogether, 
and  I begged  leave  to  come  to  her  balcony  every  night. 

“ Do  not  deny  me,”  I pleaded,  for  I love  you  and  want 
to  win  you  for  my  own.  From  this  night  I shall  have  no 
separate  existence — my  whole  being  is  merged  into  yours, 
and  the  hours  I spend  apart  from  you  henceforth  can  never 
again  be  called  life.” 

Emotion  after  emotion  thrilled  her  as  1 spoke,  until  she 
seemed  to  have  felt  everything  that  the  heart  can  feel. 
She  made  me  no  answer,  but,  pale  and  trembling,  stood 
helplessly  with  her  hands  in  mine. 

“Will  you  not  speak  ?”  I murmured,  bending  over  her. 

“ Speak  ! ” she  cried,  “ how  can  I ? There  is  more  to  say 
than  you  in  your  wildest  imaginings  can  ever  dream.  You 
should  have  heard  me  before  you  said  so  much.  Now  you 
have  silenced  me,  and  the  wretched  words  which  should 
have  come  from  my  lips  would  choke  me  if  I tried  to  say 
them.” 

“Then  leave  them  unsaid.” 

“Justice  to  you  demands  that  I should  speak ” 

“Justice  to  me  demands  nothing  which  can  distress 
you,”  I interposed. 

“ You  do  not  know  how  much  I have  to  say  about ” 

“ Stop  ! ” I cried.  “ There  are  but  two  things  I wish  to 
know.  If  you  will  tell  me  them  all  is  done.” 

“ Speak  ! What  are  they  ? ” 

“ Are  you  a wife  ? ” 

“No.” 

“ Is  any  living  man  the  possessor  of  your  heart  ?” 

Again  the  rich  crimson  tide  swept  over  her  face,  neck, 
and  shoulders.  She  placed  one  of  her  trembling,  burning 
hands  upon  mine,  glanced  shyly  up  into  my  eyes,  and  then 
looked  down. 

“Why  do  you  not  answer?”  I asked,  fearing  that  my 
fondest  hopes  were  vain. 

“ Do  you  not  know  ?”  she  cried  ; “can  you  not  see — are 
you  really  so  blind  ? ” 

I feared  to  look  at  her.  It  seemed  to  me,  then,  that  I 


A CRY  IN  THE  NIGHT, 


175 


had  been  beguiled  to  her  rooms  merely  to  furnish  her 
sport  I had  forgotten  the  danger  I had  rescued  her  from, 
and  only  remembered  that  I loved  her,  to  be  made,  as  I be- 
lieved, the  object  of  her  mirth  and  caprice. 

“ I see,’’  I said,  turning  away.  “ I am  not  so  blind  as  you 
think.  I am  nothing  to  you  because  you  already  love ” 

She  seized  me  by  the  shoulder  and  turned  me  around. 
Then  she  threw  herself  into  my  arms. 

I only  love  you,”  she  murmured. 

ft  was  the  first,  the  only  happiness  of  my  life,  and  I felt 
that  all  the  sorrow  and  misery  of  the  old  dead  days  but 
made  this  moment  the  sweeter.  I lifted  up  her  beautiful 
blushing  face,  bent  my  head,  and  then,  for  the  first  time 
in  my  life,  my  lips  touched  the  lips  of  a woman.  Earth 
never  knew  a purer  kiss. 

When  the  hour  came  for  me  to  go  she  twined  her  white 
arm.s  about  my  neck,  and  her  eyes  filled  with  tears. 

Partings — continual  partings,”  she  said.  “ That  is  all 
life  seems  to  hold!  Why  must  we  part?” 

‘‘  The  day  may  soon  come  when  we  need  not  part,”  I 
answered.  It  is  for  you  to  say  when  that  day  shall  be.” 

‘‘  I am  yours  whenever  you  want  me,”  she  murmured, 
creeping  more  closely  to  me. 

Then,”  I cried,  “you  shall  be  my  wife  to-morrow  1” 

For  a moment  she  was  silent,  but  there  was  another 
sound  in  the  room  ; a sound,  too,  which  at  first  made  her 
shudder.  It  was  such  a tremulous  cadence  as  might  be 
brought  from  a lute  if  one  touched  all  of  its  chords  at  once, 
only  that  it  ended  with  a sigh.  Three  times  the  sound  was 
repeated,  and  each  time  it  was  fainter  than  before. 

My  wonderment  was  banished  instantly  by  an  unex- 
pected caress  on  the  part  of  my  betrothed.  Standing  upon 
her  tiptoes,  she  had  raised  her  lips  to  mine  and  kissed  me. 

“ It  shall  be  as  you  say,”  she  said,  smiling  at  my  surprise. 

The  next  day  we  were  married. 

For  a year  we  lived  together  in  uninterrupted  happiness, 
sometimes  in  Rome,  sometimes  in  Florence,  sometimes  in 
Venice.  As  she  seemed  most  contented  in  the  latter  place, 
we  were  there  the  greater  part  of  our  time. 

On  the  anniversary  of  the  day  of  our  first  meeting  she 
was  strangely  quiet  and  downcast.  At  nightfall  we  stood 
together  in  the  same  balcony  where,  a year  before,  she 
sang  that  sweet  French  ballad  as  my  gondola  was  passing. 
My  arm  was  about  her  waist,,  and  I could  plainly  feel  the 
beating  of  her  heart. 


176 


A CRY  IN  THE  NIGHT, 


Why^ire  you  so  agitated,  and  yet  so  quiet  ? ’'  I asked. 

I cannot  answer  you  now,”  she  said,  ‘‘  but  1 beg  that 
you  will  sit  here  and  hold  me  in  your  arms  until  after 
midnight.” 

Presently  she  seemed  calm  again,  and  once  more  the 
French  ballad  rang  out  along  the  lagoon  from  her  perfect 
throat. 

Apparently  there  was  no  change  in  the  scene  outwardly 
since  the  year  before.  Barges  and  gondolas  were  flitting 
about  in  all  directions,  and  from  everywhere  came  music, 
laughter,  and  merry  voices. 

My  wife  sang  song  after  song,  until  she  was  tired,  and 
then,  pulling  my  face  down  to  hers,  with  both  her  hands, 
she  kissed  me. 

It  was  just  a year  ago  to-night,”  she  said,  that  you 
first  came  to  me.  I had  already  seen  you  many  times,  and 
loved  you  with  my  heart’s  first  love.  I sang,  that  night, 
because  I hoped  that  my  song  might  reach  your  ears  and 
bring  you  to  me.  You  did  come  under  my  balcony,  and  I 
kissed  the  lilies  that  your  hands  threw  to  me.  Danger 
came,  and  you  saved  me.  You  loved  me  at  once,  and  so 
we  were  married.  Since  then,  I doubt  if  God,  whose  eter- 
nal curse  I once  thought  was  upon  me,  has  ever  given  so 
much  happiness  to  any  woman.” 

Her  large  dark  eyes  were  luminous  and  full  of  tears, 
and  her  face  had  never  seemed  so  beautiful  to  me  before. 
I was  about  answering  her,  when  suddenly  the  air  about  us 
was  filled  with  a strange  hissing  sound,  which  made  my 
wife’s  flesh  quiver  like  shaken  jelly.  She  clutched  me 
closely,  and  looked  wildly  up  into  my  face.  The  smile  she 
saw  there  seemed  to  content  her,  for  she  gave  a little  sigh 
of  relief  and  nestled  quietly  down  into  my  arms. 

All  at  once,  the  hissing  stopped,  and  a shadow  fell  across 
us.  Before  I could  raise  my  eyes,  my  wife  again  uttered 
the  same  dreadful  cry  which  had  summoned  me  to  her  as- 
sistance a year  before. 

I looked  up  and  saw  standing  before  us  the  same  demon, 
or  goblin,  whom  I banished  on  that  memorable  night  when 
I first  met  my  wife.  He  w^as  grinning  and  chuckling  fiend- 
ishly, and,  bending  over  her,  he  breathed  his  hot  breath 
into  her  face.  At  first  she  trembled  with  terror  ; and  then, 
recovering  her  self-possession,  she  raised  her  head  and 
gazed  unflinchingly  into  his  eyes.  It  was  more  than  he 
could  stand,  and  he  vanished  almost  instantly. 

Then  my  wife’s  e3^es  were  bent  upon  my  face,  so  search- 


A CRY  IN  THE  NIG  FIT, 


^11 


ingly  and  so  yearningly  that  I pressed  her  passionately  to 
niy  breast  and  covered  her  face  with  kisses. 

You  still  love  me — you  still  trust  me  ? she  cried. 

Yes  ; more  than  ever  before.’’ 

‘‘  How  hard  your  tenderness  makes  my  duty ! ” she 
gasped.  If  I was  not  such  a coward — was  not  so  much 
afraid  of  losing  some  portion  of  your  love — I would  now 
tell  you  that  which  was  due  you  a year  ago.” 

‘‘Do  not  speak  of  it  or  think  of  it,”  I answered.  “ So 
long  as  you  love  me,  and  are  happy  with  me,  1 am  satis- 
fied.” 

“One  thing  I must  say,”  she  said,  “else  our  love  will 
soon  be  desolated.  You  must  be  with  me  on  the  next  an- 
niversary of  this  night,  and  must  keep  your  arms  about 
me  from  sunset  until  midnight.  After  that,  I will  forever 
be  safe.” 

I was  puzzled,  amazed,  and  bewildered  by  the  whole  af- 
fair ; but  the  subject  distressed  and  pained  her,  and  I loved 
her  too  well  to  let  her  talk  about  it.  And,  lest  ske  should 
fathom  my  thoughts,  I kept  the  uncanny  mystery  as  much 
as  possible  out  of  my  mind. 

Two  months  later  we  went  to  live  in  France,  and  finally 
in  Germany,  Excepting  a month,  another  year  had  passed 
since  our  wedding. 

One  day,  at  the  beginning  of  this  last  month,  I was 
walking  alone  in  the  forest,  when  I suddenly  caught  one 
foot  under  some  hard  substance  which  nearly  fiung  me 
upon  my  face.  Glancing  back  at  the  cause  of  possible 
disaster,  I saw,  partially  imbedded  in  the  ground,  a thin 
oval  plate,  which  seemed  to  have  several  words  engraved 
upon  one  side.  Picking  it  up,  I found  that  it  was  made  of 
silver,  and  that  it  was  very  old.  The  inscription,  which 
was  in  Italian,  was  as  follows  : 

Michael  Spezzi, 

Claimed  by  the  Devil, 

June  lo,  1560. 

On  my  way  home  I met  a German  savant  with  whom  I 
was  intimate.  I showed  him  the  plate,  and  was  surprised 
to  see  an  expression  of  the  most  intense  horror  come  upon 
his  face. 

“ There  is  a terrible  story  connected  with  this  thing,”  he 
said,  after  a moment.  “ Michael  Spezzi  was  a half  German, 
half  Italian,  who  came  here  into  the  Hartz  Mountains 


12 


178 


A CRY  JN  THE  NIGHT 


about  1530.  He  was  of  royal  blood,  and  married  a niece 
of  the  king.  Five  years  later,  a daughter  was  born  to  them, 
and  soon  afterward  they  fell  into  disfavor  with  the  king 
and  went  to  live  in  France.  But  when  Spezzi’s  beautiful 
daughter  was  about  twenty-five,  disaster  again  came  upon 
him.  He  had  no  alternative,  so  history  says,  except  ap- 
pealing to  the  devil.  The  fiend  came  in  answer  to  Spezzi’s 
incantation,  and  promised  him  everything  he  wanted.  The 
price  demanded  was  the  soul  of  Spezzi’s  beloved  daughter. 

After  a time,  the  unfortunate  man  signed  the  compact, 
but  within  a month  he  repented  having  done  so,  and 
begged  that  his  own  soul  might  be  sacrificed,  instead  of 
his  daughter’s.  The  devil  consented,  upon  certain  condi- 
tions. Spezzi  was  to  yield  himself  to  the  cunning  fiend  at 
the  end  of  a year.  The  girl’s  youth  and  beauty  were  to  be 
perpetual  for  five  hundred  years.  If,  at  the  end  of  that 
time,  she  was  still  a virgin,  her  soul  was  to  be  free,  and  the 
soul  of  her  father  was  also  to  be  relinquished  from  tor- 
ment. I*n  the  meantime,  if  the  girl  found  any  rnan  who, 
knowing  that  she  was  in  the  devil’s  grip,  would  still  love 
and  marry  her,  that  would  end  the  infernal  compact,  and 
she  and  her  father  would  both  be  free.  Even  then,  though, 
the  devil  was  still  to  have  three  chances.  If,  on  the  night  she 
first  met  her  lover,  he  failed  to  clasp  her  in  his  arms,  in  de- 
fiance of  the  devil’s  presence,  the  fiend  could  then  claim 
her  soul.  On  the  first  and  second  anniversaries  of  that 
night  the  devil  would  also  have  the  same  awful  power,  un- 
less she  was  in  either  her  husband’s  or  her  lover’s  arms. 
If  she  passed  these  three  ordeals  safely,  the  compact  would 
be  ended  and  the  devil  foiled. 

That  is  the  story.  It  is  said  that  the  devil  came  for 
Spezzi,  and  that  his  relatives  put  this  very  silver  plate 
upon  his  tomb,  which  was  made  in  some  unknown  corner 
in  the  Hartz  Mountains.  Nobody  knows  what  befell  the 
daughter.  It  is  very  singular,  though,  that  you  should 
have  found  the  plate  ; it  has  been  lost  so  long.” 

My  learned  friend  went  on  talking  upon  other  subjects, 
but  I scarcely  heard  a word  he  said.  My  whole  mind  was 
full  of  the  story  that  he  had  told  me. 

It  was  now  all  perfectly  clear  to  me.  The  supposed 
legend  was  true,  and  I had  really  married  the  daughter  of 
the  ill-fated  Michael  Spezzi  ! Instead  of  being  horrified,  I 
was  filled  with  a deep  sense  of  gladness  that  I had  brought 
so  much  happiness  into  such  an  overshadowed  life.  My 
manner  toward  my  wife  was  even  more  tender  than  ever, 


A CRY  I AT  THE  NIGHT, 


179 


after  that,  and  she  seemed  instinctively  to  feel  that  at  last 
I knew  all. 

The  day  before  the  anniversary  upon  which  so  much  de- 
pended I was  strolling  about  in  the  mountains,  when  my 
right  leg  was  broken  by  a slight  fall.  At  first,  I could  not 
move,  but  late  in  the  night  some  of  my  strength  returned  and 
I began  crawling  homeward.  I had  many  miles  to*go,  and 
some  of  the  journey  had  to  be  made  by  almost  impassable 
paths,  over  craggy  hills. 

All  day,  I dragged  myself  along,  stopping,  occasionally, 
to  shout  for  help.  But  no  one  came  to  my  assistance. 

It  was  night  when  I reached  home,  and  at  my  summons 
the  servants  helped  me  at  once  to  my  wife’s  room.  Just 
as  I reached  the  door,  once  more  her  voice  rang  out  in 
that  wild,  despairing  cry. 

Despite  the  pain  in  my  broken  leg,  I rushed  forward 
and  flung  open  the  door.  But  I was  too  late  ! The  fiend 
already  had  her  in  his  arms.  Her  face  was  turned  to  me 
in  the  most  pitiful  entreaty,  and  I tried  in  vain  to  reach 
her  outstretched  hands.  Then  the  house  shook  violently 
for  a moment  and  the  room  became  dark  as  night.  An  in- 
stant later  the  servants  and  I were  in  the  midst  of  a lurid 
blue  flame,  but  the  fiend  had  borne  my  wife  away. 


THE  SUN  AND  DEATH 


Three  rocky  crags  jutted  out  into  the  sea.  At  low  tide, 
they  could  be  reached  without  wetting  the  soles  of  one’s 
shoes,  but  at  floodtide,  the  seething  water  swept  over  them 
so  fiercely  that  no  boat  could  live  near  them. 

The  tide  was  nearly  out,  now,  and  the  advancing  and  re- 
ceding waves  barely  wet  the  base  of  the  farthest  crag. 

Upon  it,  a half-clad  maiden  lay  basking  in  the  sun.  She 
had  been  pattering  about,  in  the  wet  sand,  with  her  pretty 
little  bare  feet.  The  surf  had  drenched  her  to  the  skin, 
and  so  she  had  climbed  up  there  to  dry  herself. 

In  her  eyes,  was  the  warm  sunshine  of  France,  and  its 
darkness  was  in  her  hair  ; its  spirit  was  in  her  face  ; and 
its  grace  in  her  form.  As  she  lay  there,  running  her  pink 
fingers  through  her  dripping  hair,  some  thought  of  her 
lover  made  her  laugh.  It  was  that  wonderful  ripple  and 
gurgle  which  only  comes  from  a Frenchwoman’s  throat — 
that  perfect  laugh  which  is  divinest  music  to  all  the  men 
of  France. 

The  same  breeze  which  carried  her  laugh  seaward,  and 
lost  it  in  the  noise  of  the  rushing  waters,  also  brought 
sounds  and  scents  over  the  jagged  cliff-line,  dividing  the 
low-lying  sandy  beach  from  the  green  gardens  and  meadows 
a^ove. 

There  was  the  dainty  odor  of  lilies,  and  the  richer, 
heavier  perfume  from  the  ripening  grapes.  Along  with 
the  faint  hum  of  the  bees,  and  the  music  of  the  birds,  came 
the  voices  of  maidens  who  were  singing  in  the  vineyards. 

To  the  keen  ears  of  the  pretty  idler,  who  lay  smiling  on 
the  gray  crag,  in  the  warm  sunlight,  turning  ever  and  anon 
to  thoroughly  dry  herself,  there  came  still  another  sound. 
It  sent  a faint  glow  over  her  face  and  neck.  Her  smile 
gave  place  to  a look  of  assumed  gravity,  and  closing  her 
eyes,  she  feigned  sleep. 


THE  SUN  AND  DEATH, 


i8i 


She  had  heard  stealthy  footsteps  in  the  glittering  sand, 
and  instinct  told  her  that  her  lover  was  approaching.  Her 
heart  beat  faster  as  he  came  nearer. 

He  looked  like  a god,  he  was  so  lithe,  strong,  nimble 
and  proud.  He  was  bare-armed  and  hatless,  with  skin  as 
brown  as  a Tuscan  chestnut,  and  such  eyes  as  Correggio 
gave  to  his  Magdalena.  It  was  no  wonder  that  even  such 
a maid  loved  such  a man  ! Many  a daughter  of  France 
said  that. 

With  quick,  cautious  tread  he  came  forward,  and  then, 
with  one  bound,  he  was  on  the  crag,  peeping  over  into  the 
rocky  hollow  in  which  she  was  lying,  with  his  face  but 
three  spans  from  hers.  She  still  feigned  sleep. 

No  woman  could  long  lie  unmoved  and  apathetic  under 
such  a gaze,  and  with  a sudden  outburst  of  passionate 
laughter,  she  covered  her  face  with  her  hands. 

‘‘So,  little  pretender,”  he  said,  “you  were  not  sleeping 
after  all ! ” 

“I  was  drying  myself  in  the  sun.  I thought,  perhaps, 
you  might  go  away  if  I seemed  to  be  asleep.” 

“ But  you  failed  to  deceive  me.” 

“ So  I see,”  she  answered,  as  she  uncovered  her  eyes  and 
glanced  at  him. 

“ Are  you  eager  to  have  me  go  away  and  leave  you  ?” 

“But,  you  see,  you  came  uninvited.” 

“So  did  the  sun  and  the  wind.” 

“You  are  mistaken;  the  sun  came  first.  Besides,  the 
sun  is  welcome.” 

“Am  I to  go,  then  ?” 

“ Not  if  staying  gives  you  pleasure.  I do  not  wish  to 
mar  your  pleasure.” 

He  frowned. 

Pretending  not  to  see  it,  she  saw  it — and  smiled. 

“Do  you,  then,  prefer  the  sun  to  me?”  he  asked  im- 
patiently. 

She  turned  her  head,  so  that  he  only  saw  the  side  of  her 
face. 

“The  sun,”  she  said,  “ warms  me  with  his  splendid  light. 
He  never  frowns  on  me,  but  is  always  smiling,  always  warm.” 

“ Listen  ! ” he  exclaimed,  as  he  bent  over  her  fiercely, 
“ 1,  too,  would  always  smile  if  yon  would  let  me.  But 
sometimes  you  are  so  capricious  and  perplexing — such  a 
child,  along  with  your  womanliness  ! One  never  can  tell 
just  what  you  mean.  If,  for  one  moment,  you  were  re- 
sponsive to  my  love,  I would  say  words  to  you,  compared 


THE  SUN  AND  DEATH, 


182 

with  which  the  warmth  of  the  sun  would  be  as  ice  com- 
pared with  fire.  But  you  will  not  let  me  speak — you  will 
not  even  let  me  touch  your  hand.’' 

And  he  turned  away  bitterly. 

“The  sun  does  not  reproach  me,”  she  said  ; “does  not 
upbraid  me.” 

He  looked  at  her  quickly.  She  was  watching  the  gulls, 
the  dancing  waves  and  the  fishermen  in  the  bay.  He 
doubted  if  she  had  heard  a word  that  he  had  said.  His 
tone,  rather  than  anything  else,  seemed  to  have  reached 
her  ears  and  caused  her  to  speak. 

“ The  sun — the  sun — always  the  sun  ! ” he  exclaimed  an- 
grily. “ Can  the  sun  woo  you  ? Can  the  sun  wed  you  ? 
Can  you  have  the  sun  for  a husband  ?” 

“Alas,  no  ! ” she  answered  with  a little  sigh.  Her  lips 
trembled  as  if  with  grief. 

Again  he  looked  into  her  face.  Did  she  really  hear 
him  ? Were  these  words  she  was  saying  in  answer  to  him, 
or  was  she  rapt  in  reverie  and  oblivious  of  his  presence, 
musing  aloud,  speaking,  unconsciously,  random  fragments 
of  secret  regrets — regrets  which  he  could  not  fathom  ? 
He  could  not  tell.  Her  eyes  were  still  bent  seaward. 
She  was  still  watching  the  fishermen,  the  gulls  and  the 
waves. 

He  wondered  if  he  ever  would  know,  how  large,  or  how 
small,  was  the  place  he  held  in  her  heart — or  if  he  had  a 
place  there  at  all.  Sometimes  he  doubted  if  she  could  be 
stirred  into  loving  any  one.  She  was  so  unlike  all  the 
other  women  he  knew.  By  day,  she  would  lie  in  the  sun- 
shine, and  by  night  she  would  watch  the  stars.  Save  at 
rare  moments  she  seemed  to  be  passionless — only  a child. 
He  shook  his  head. 

“ Why  do  you  always  talk  of  the  sun  ? ” he  asked,  im- 
patiently. “ Why  is  it  that  men  have  no  part  in  your 
thoughts  ? ” 

“ The  sun  was  my  earliest  friend.  Of  men,  save  you,  I 
have  known  but  little.  The  sun,  too,  did  that  which  no 
man  has  done  for  me  : it  gave  me  a playmate  first,  then  a 
companion  who  has  never  annoyed  me  with  idle  words.” 

“Who  is  this  perfect  playmate — tliis  reproachless  com- 
panion ? ” 

“ My  own  shadow ; my  only  associate  who  has  not 
wearied  and  tormented  me.  You  see,  I owe  much  to  the 
sun.” 

“ Bah  ! ” 


Again  he  frowned,  and  she  smiled. 


THE  SUN  AND  DEATH  183 

The  sun  is  my  most  faithful  lover,  and  my  best  be- 
loved,” she  said. 

See  here!”  he  exclaimed  passionately,  ^‘you  are  not 
witliOLit  womanly  instinct,  though  scarcely  more  than  a 
child  in  some  of  life’s  most  vital  attributes.  You  must 
know  well  enough  what  you  are  to  me.  The  sun,  which 
you  so  dearly  love,  is  even  less  to  the  birds  and  the  lilies  ! 
Since  I love  you  so  well,  can  you  not  bid  me  hope  ?” 

For  what  ? ” 

For  your  love.” 

‘^Why  should  I love  you  ?” 

Because  I love  you  ! ” 

And  you  would  make  me  your  wife,  then  ?” 

Yes  ! a thousand  times,  yes  ! ” 

“A  woman  should  love  a man  before  she  calls  him  hus- 
band. You  ask  too  much  of  me.” 

Then  you  do  not  love  me  ?” 

How  am  I to  know  that  you  love  me  so  much  ?” 

Can  you  not  see — does  not  your  own  heart  tell  you 
what  is  in  mine  ? ” 

“ It  is  so  easy  to  make  mistakes.  One  cannot  be  posi- 
tive.” 

“ Then  let  me  prove  my  love.  Tell  me  how  I can  best 
do  so.” 

By  standing  aside,  and  letting  the  sun  shine  on  me,  as 
it  did  before  you  came.” 

He  glanced  at  her,  smiled  sorrowfully,  dropped  down 
from  the  crag,  and  ran  away,  with  her  laughter  ringing  in 
his  ears. 

She  listened  until  she  could  no  longer  hear  his  footsteps 
in  the  sand,  and  then  she  lifted  her  head  and  watched  him 
until  he  disappeared  over  the  cliffs.  He  never  once  looked 
back. 

When  he  was  out  of  sight,  she  turned  her  head  and 
looked  seaward.  The  tide  was  now  at  its  limit — entirely 
out. 

In  three  hours,”  she  said,  ^Hhe  waves  will  be  where  I 
am  now.” 

Then  she  threw  herself  back  into  the  hollow,  in  the 
top  of  the  barren  crag,  and  again  lay  basking  in  the  sun- 
shine. 

‘‘He  loves  me!”  she  said.  “He  loves  me!”  And 
she  repeated  the  words,  over  and  over  again,  until,  lost  in 
a succession  of  delicious  dreams,- and  unaware  that  her 
lips  moved,  or  that  any  sound  came  through  them,  she 


184 


THE  SUN  AND  DEATH 


fitted  the  sweet  words  to  the  refrain  of  an  old  love  ditty, 
and  for  a long  time  kept  singing  them,  softly,  to  the  still 
softer  accompaniment  of  the  distant  waves. 

After  a time  the  glow  went  out  of  her  eyes,  the  lids 
closed,  and  the  long  lashes  touched  her  cheeks.  Her  lips, 
too,  closed.  She  slept. 

In  an  hour,  the  base  of  the  crag,  upon  which  she  lay, 
would  again  receive  the  spray  from  the  incoming  tide.  In 
two  hours,  if  she  still  lay  there,  the  water  would  catch  up 
her  dainty  little  body,  and  fling  it  against  the  cliffs  which 
separated  the  sea  and  the  sand  from  the  gardens  and  the 
vineyards. 

She  awoke  with  a start.  There  was  a terrible  sound  in 
her  ears — it  was  the  sound  of  rushing  water.  She  sprang 
to  her  feet.  The  tide  was  coming  in.  Already  her  retreat 
was  cut  off.  In  half  an  hour  she  would  be  dashed  shore- 
ward— dead  ! Yes,  it  was  inevitable.  No  man,  no  boat, 
nothing  could  cross  to  the  shore.  That  writhing,  seething, 
boiling  mass  of  angry  green  water  meant  but  one  thing, 
and  that  thing  was  death. 

Still  she  did  not  tremble.  She  simply  turned  pale,  and 
watched  the  treacherous  monster  at  her  feet,  as  firmly  and 
bravely  as  the  great  Joan  had  faced  death.  She  thought 
of  her  fearless  countrywoman,  the  simple  shepherdess  who 
led  an  army,  and  the  thought  made  her  still  firmer  and 
braver.  Then  another  thought  came  which  made  her  very 
weak.  Her  lover,  whom  she  had  sent  away  with  a jest — 
she  would  die,  and  he  would  never  know  that  she  loved 
liim  ! He  would  always  think  that  she  was  only  a child, 
that  she  was  cold  and  immovable,  and  that  she  really  loved 
the  sun  best — just  as  she  had  told  him.  If  he  could  only 
know  the  truth,  she  would  not  shrink  from  deatli.  But 
now  it  was  so  hard.  He  should  have  known  that  she  was 
only  jesting.  How  could  any  woman,  however  silly,  love 
the  sun  in  the  sense  he  meant  ? How  could  any  woman 
help  loving  him  ? 

The  water  crept  up  over  the  crag,  and  splashed  about 
her  ankles,  gently  first,  then  saucily,  then  angrily.  It  rose 
steadily. 

The  sun — that  traitor  whose  soft  spells  had  lured  her 
into  this  fatal  sleep — was  hidden  behind  a pile  of  black, 
ominous  clouds.  It  might  come  forth  again,  in  time  to 
shine  upon  her  coffin,  before  it  was  lowered  into  her 
grave — if  they  found  her  dead  body  ! The  fishermen, 
though,  said  that  whoever  got  into  the  water  there  at  flood 


THE  SUN  AND  DEATH.  185 

tide  was  sure  to  be  carried  out  seaward  by  the  undertow. 
No  one,  they  said,  ever  came  back  again. 

There  was  more  horror  in  that  thought,  to  her,  than  there 
was  in  the  thought  of  death.  And  her  lover — if  slie  could 
only  let  him  know  that  she  loved  him  ! That  done  she 
could  die  happy. 

She  strained  her  eyes  shoreward  and  lield  out  her  hands 
yearningly,  but  there  was  no  one  in  sight — no  one  to  see 
her.  Then  she  lifted  up  lier  hands,  and  her  streaming 
eyes,  and  implored  Heaven  to  let  her  lover  know  that  she 
liad  died  loving  him — that  his  was  the  last  image  before 
her  eyes. 

The  water  beat  against  her  knees  and  splashed  up  into 
her  face.  She  was  praying,  wildly  and  in  full  voice,  that 
same  sad,  yearning  prayer,  that  he,  the  one  man  of  all  the 
world  to  her,  might  know  how  she  had  died. 

With  the  prayer  still  on  her  lips,  and  her  eyes  still  lifted 
up,  she  was  suddenly  conscious  that  someone  or  some- 
thing had  risen  up  out  of  the  sea  at  her  feet,  and  was 
standing  on  the  crag  before  her.  She  shuddered,  closed  her 
eyes,  and  pressed  her  hands  tightly  over  them.  She  was 
afraid  to  look.  There  was  a tempest  in  her  brain,  and  she 
feared  that  her  reason  was  going.  Surely  no  creature  of 
flesh  and  blood  could  have  come  to  her  through  that  wild 
sea.  It  must  be  that  grandames  were  right — that  there 
really  was  an  Angel  of  Death,  and  that  he  had  come  for 
her.  Then  she  grew  calmer,  and  opened  her  eyes  to  face 
the  shadowy  one. 

Was  it  a phantom  she  saw,  or,  in  her  awful  agony,  had 
she  gone  entirely  mad  ? Could  it  be  that  the  object  before 
her— bruised,  bleeding,  and  drenching  wet — was  her  lover  ? 
She  put  forth  her  hands  and  touched  his  face.  Joy!  It 
was  he  ! Death  had  no  terror  for  her  now  ! 

God  be  praised  1 she  cried,  and  then  sprang  into  his 
arms. 

As  they  stood  there,  clasping  each  other,  and  looking 
into  each  other’s  eyes,  not  death,  but  love,  filled  all  their 
thoughts.  The  water  was  still  rising,  but  they  did  not 
heed  it. 

Louder  and  louder  the  breakers  boomed  as  they  dashed 
against  the  cliffs.  Higher  and  higher  leaped  the  waves, 
and  every  moment  the  foam  grew  whiter. 

The  two  on  the  crag  did  not  speak.  There  was  no  fear  in 
the  smile  on  their  faces  ; there  was  no  terror  in  the  tender 
glow  in  their  eyes.  They  held  each  other  tightly,  and  awaited 


i86 


THE  SUN  AND  DEATH. 


the  end.  It  was  their  wedding-night.  What  mattered  it  to 
them  whether  they  were  to  sleep  upon  down  or  on  the  wet 
sand  ? They  could  sleep  as  well  under  the  green  waves  as 
under  snowy  linen — so  long  as  they  had  each  other.  Time 
was  short  at  longest ; for  them  it  might  as  well  be  a few 
seconds  as  a few  years.  They  had  all  eternity  for  their 
bliss. 

Night  came  with  the  flood,  and  darkness  shrouded  them 
before  the  tide  was  high.  They  were  still  smiling — still 
clasping  each  other — when  they  were  swept  away,  and 
night  and  the  water  closed  over  them. 

Their  dead  bodies  escaped  the  undertow,  and  the  next 
morning  the  fishermen  found  them  on  the  beach.  The 
sun  did  not  shine  in  her  face  now,  for  it  lay  hidden  in  his 
bosom. 


THE  HIMALAYAN  PRISONER. 


Of  course  you  have  heard  of  my  two  brothers.  Henri, 
the  oldest,  was  almost  at  the  head  of  the  Royal  Geographi- 
cal Society.  Jacques,  the  youngest,  was  eminent  as  a pro- 
fessor of  languages.  I,  the  middle  brother,  was  in  every 
sense  the  middle  brother.  I was  nothing  at  all,  in  particu- 
lar— only  a heedless,  careless  sort  of  a dog,  who  took  the 
world  as  a great  foolish  thing  that  I had  to  make  the  best 
of  ; and  life — well,  life  was  a joke. 

This  was  the  state  of  affairs  before  that  which  I am 
going  to  tell  you  about  happened.  Since  then,  matters 
have  assumed  a more  sober  guise,  though  I still  maintain 
that  he  who  takes  the  things  of  the  present  existence 
seriously,  is  a very  great  fool. 

Despite  my  general  indifference  and  lax  views,  my  two 
distinguished  brothers  were  exceedingly  fond  of  me.  I 
poked  fun  at  their  vast  erudition,  and  laughed  at  their 
scientific  theories.  This  they  seemed  to  thoroughly  enjoy, 
and  at  last  I came  to  the  conclusion  that  they  regarded 
me  as  a sort  of  a joke-book.  I was  not  in  the  least  put 
out  by  this.  I was  sure  that  my  nonsense  could  not  amuse 
them  as  much  as  their  supposed  wisdom  amused  me. 

Being  with  them  so  much,  and  being,  also,  somewhat 
quick  at  catching  up  things,  I gained  quite  a smattering 
of  scientific  knowledge,  which,  aside  from  turning  it  into 
ridicule,  I made  no  use  of  until  the  occurrence  of  the 
strange  things  with  which  I am  about  dealing. 

One  spring  day,  the  doctors  suddenly  informed  us  that 
unless  Jacques  was  at  once  taken  from  his  work,  his  mental 
energies  would  be  destroyed.  Jacques  himself  excepted, 
everybody  was  alarmed  and  disturbed.  He  laughed  good- 
naturedly,  turned  to  me,  and  said  : 

‘‘Well,  old  fellow,  we’ll  have  a lark,  then — a regular 
out-and-out  lark.  You  shall  plan  it,  and  Henri  shall  go 


i88 


THE  HIMALAYAN  PRISONER. 


along  and  act  as  balance  wheel.  Where  will  we  go,  and 
what  will  we  do  ? Speak  out  your  first  impression,  and, 
no  matter  how  reckless  it  is,  we  will  obey  it.” 

‘‘Let’s  go  to  the  Vale  of  Cashmere  and  thence,  as  near 
as  we  can  get,  to  the  summit  of  the  Himalayas,”  I said,  and 
a moment  later  I was  blushing  with  an  overpowering  con- 
sciousness of  my  own  absurd  audacity. 

Henri  looked  grave  and  displeased,  but  Jacques  hailed 
my  proposition  with  the  heartiest  laughter. 

“We  will  do  it,”  he  said,  and  that  settled  it.  No  one 
could  dissuade  him. 

“I  am  afraid  the  doctors  did  not  speak  in  time,”  said 
Henri,  when  we  were  alone.  “ His  mind  is  already  un- 
settled.” 

I clenched  my  hands,  and  then  thrusting  them  into  my 
pockets,  hurried  away  in  silence.  It  was  one  beloved 
brother  criticising  another  beloved  brother.  What  else, 
then  walk  away,  could  I have  done?  Under  any  other 
circumstances  I should  have  thrashed  Henri. 

A few  weeks  later  we  were  in  the  delightful  Vale  of 
Cashmere.  Already  Jacques  was  improving.  The  beauti- 
ful valley,  and,  more  than  that,  the  sight  of  the  eternal 
snow  on  the  Himalayas,  had  the  most  exhilarating  effect  on 
him.  A rich  color  of  health  came  upon  his  face,  and  he 
was  continually  in  the  most  buoyant  spirits. 

“Perhaps,  you  will  admit,  now,  that  I am  not  such  a 
fool,”  I said  to  Henri  one  day,'  when  the  improvement  in 
Jacques  had  become  marked  and  striking. 

“ I never  thought  you  in  any  sense  a fool,”  he  answered, 
quickly;  “ but  how  was  I to  know  that  what  you  proposed 
would  do  him  so  much  good  ?” 

When,  with  our  guides  and  our  attendants,  we  had  ac- 
complislied  about  half  of  the  difficult  ascent,  Henri  came 
to  me  and  thanked  me  for  not  only  proposing  a plan  which 
so  manifestly  was  benefiting  Jacques,  but  which,  also,  was 
enabling  him  to  carry  out  some  of  his  own  geographical 
ambitions. 

As  we  gradually  ascended,  leaving  behind  us  the  languid 
Cashmerean  sumnaer,  and  advancing  into  the  endless  win- 
ter of  the  high  summits,  we  were  all  full  of  enthusiasm 
over  the  novel  experience,  and  enraptured  with  the  tre- 
mendous landscape  which  we  were  enabled  to  overlook. 
That  is,  we  were  all  enraptured,  and  so  forth,  except  our 
guides  and  attendants,  who  looked  upon  us  as  something 
to  be  pitied  even  more  than  idiots. 


THE  HI  MALA  YAH  PRISONER. 


189 


Higher  and  higher  we  went,  but  all  the  while  more  and 
more  slowly,  to  escape  being  harmed  by  the  constant 
change  of  altitude.  At  last,  the  formation  of  the  moun- 
tain, and  the  awful  severity  of  the  weather,  combined 
against  our  going  farther  in  the  direction  intended. 
We  were  forced  to  turn  back,  with  the  summit  which  we 
were  so  anxious  to  reach,  still  a long  way  above  us,  and 
beyond  our  efforts. 

Reluctantly  we  gave  it  up,  and  once  more  set  our  faces 
toward  the  Vale  of  Cashmere. 

On  our  way  down  the  mountain,  we  swerved  a little  from 
our  course  in  ascending,  and  so  came  under  a jutting  point 
of  rock,  which  the  winds  for  centuries  had  swept  free  from 
snow.  In  the  extremest  point  of  this  rock  was  a niche 
about  tw^o  feet  square,  and  in  this  was  an  object  which  at- 
tracted my  attention.  The  object  looked  like  a vase  of 
antique  pattern.  Instantly  my  curiosity  was  aroused, 
and,  after  considerable  efforts,  I secured  the  mysterious 
object.  It  was,  unmistakably,  so  one  of  my  learned  broth- 
ers assured  me,  an  ancient  Hindu  vase.  It  was  covered 
with  a curious  piece  of  metal,  upon  which  was  engraved  a 
verse  from  the  Koran,  and  the. name  of  a man,  who,  thanks 
also  to  my  wise  brothers,  I found  was  a great  savant,  nearly 
a thousand  years  before.  He  was,  in  fact,  one  of  the 
wisest  men  of  his  day,  and  the  strangest  fact  in  his  strange 
history  was  that  no  one  knew  where  or  when  he  had  died. 

The  metallic  cover,  bearing  the  bit  of  information, 
which,  under  the  exceedingly  interesting  and  peculiar  cir- 
cumstances was  so  very  startling,  was  sealed  securely  over 
the  top  of  the  vase  with  a substance  wholly  unknown  to 
my  brothers,  and  which  also  defied  our  most  strenuous 
efforts  at  removing  it. 

The  only  way  into  the  vase  seemed  to  be  by  breaking  it, 
and  since  it  might  possibly  contain  the  old  fellow’s  ashes, 
we  were  not  anxious  to  penetrate  its  mysteries  in  that  way. 
We  must  wait  until  we  were  once  more  in  the  beautiful 
Cashmerean  Valley,  and  no  three  women  ever  awaited  the 
divulgence  of  a tantalizing  secret  with  more  reluctance. 

We  were  eventually  forced  to  break  open  the  vase  after 
all,  the  sealing  of  the  cover  had  been  so  effectually  done. 

Its  contents,  some  scraps  of  parchment  closely  written  in 
Sanskrit,  relieved  us  of  the  unpleasant  fear  that  we  had 
rifled  a tomb.  But  these  same  scraps  of  parchment  con- 
tained the  most  remarkable  personal  history  of  which  I 
have  ever  heard. 


190 


THE  HIMALAYAN  PRISONER, 


The  writing  was  not  all  done  at  once,  but  at  several 
different  periods,  according  to  the  dates,  at  least  lialf  a 
century  apart.  Deciphered  and  translated,  it  ran  thus  : 

“ To  the  finder,  greeting.  If  he  have  virtue  it  will  be  a 
thousandfold  increased  if  he  does  my  bidding.  If  he  lacks 
virtue,  and  does  my  bidding,  virtue  will  he  accorded  him. 
If  he  reads  what  I have  written,  and  heeds  it  not,  he  who 
so  reads,  and  all  who  come  from  liim,  will  be  forever  ac- 
cursed. I am  he  who,  two  centuries  after  Mohammed 
came,  scholars  called  Great  Ferahki.  More  of  knowledge, 
they  said,  was  given  to  me  tlian  to  any  other  man.  This 
was  because  from  my  birth,  until  this  time,  my  life  was 
blameless.  The  spirits  of  light  and  the  spirits  of  dark- 
ness both  came  to  me,  and  from  both  I was  offered 
my  will.  But  I put  them  by,  asking  nothing  until  the 
three  daughters,  whom  my  wife  had  given  me,  were  grown. 
Then  my  wife  asked  me,  for  them,  things  which  I,  in  my 
poverty,  could  not  give.  Then,  for  the  first,  was  I am- 
bitious. 

Night  and  day,  I pondered  the  problem,  but  I could 
devise  naught  whence  money  would  come  to  me.  In  my 
blackest  moment  of  despair,  a woman  came  to  me  who 
asked  such  service  as  was  never  asked  of  man  before.  I 
was  afraid  and  trembled,  but  the  luring  promise  of  a plen- 
teous gift  of  gold,  which  she  made  me,  led  me  into  listen- 
ing— and  heeding.  She,  and  a man  whom  she  loved,  were 
both  possessed  of  great  riches.  They  would  marry  but  for 
one  thing.  She,  with  her  womanly  perfections  of  face  and 
person,  had  the  bold,  dauntless,  hardy  spirit  of  a man.  He, 
with  a fine  face,  and  the  natural  vigor  of  man,  had  the 
tender,  clinging,  shrinking  nature  of  woman.  What  she 
wished  of  me  was  to  draw  forth  from  them  both  their  souls, 
and  then,  in  letting  them  return,  send  her  soul  into  his 
body  and  his  soul  into  hers.  He  then  would  be,  both  in 
equipment  of  soul  and  body,  all  man.  She  then  would 
be,  both  in  equipment  of  soul  and  body,  all  woman. 
Each,  then,  in  their  own  belief,  would  be  better  fitted  for 
each  other  than  they  were  as  the  Master  of  Life  had  made 
them. 

In  my  blind,  mad  struggle  for  gold,  for  my  daughters, 
I put  aside  the  awful  fact  that  if  I did  this  thing  I would 
break  the  one  great  law  of  the  Master  of  Life,  which, 
broken,  can  have  no  pardon  ; and  I bade  the  woman  and 
the  man  come  to  me,  at  oiicC;  swearing  to  her  to  fulfil 
what  she  required. 


THE  HIMALAYAN'  PRISONER. 


191 

“ While  she  was  gone,  I summoned  tlie  shadowy  ones, 
beseeching  them  to  aid  me  now.  Full  of  horror,  the  spirits 
of  light,  forbidding  what  I asked,  on  my  persistence,  for- 
sook me.  But  the  spirits  of  darkness  promised  me  aid. 

“The  man  and  woman  came.  I put  them  in  a deep  and 
stirless  sleep,  and  redeemed  my  pledge.  When  they  awak- 
ened, their  souls  had  undergone  the  change.  Contented 
and  happy,  they  showered  me  with  gold  and  departed.  I 
gave  the  gold  to  my  wife.  It  was  sufficient  to  keep  her 
and  her  daughters  a century. 

“That  night,  when  I sought  sleep,  the  spirit  of  light 
came.  ‘ Because  you  have  done  this  thing  for  love,’  they 
said,  it  will  be  forgiven  you.  Had  you  kept  the  smallest 
portion  of  what  you  have  gained,  by  this  disobedience  your 
name  would  be  written  in  the  Book  of  Eternal  Sleep.  But 
never  again  can  you  look  upon  the  faces  of  those  for  whom 
you  have  broken  this  great  law.  You  must  go  with  us,  now, 
never  to  return  again,  wearing  flesh.’ 

“They  took  me  with  them  to  the  summit  of  this  great 
mountain.  In  its  very  summit  is  a cave  where,  some  time, 
some  hermit  has  dwelt.  It  W’as  in  this  cave  that  the  spirits 
left  me,  forbidding  my  ever  going  thence,  except  by  their 
will.” 

Here  the  first  parchment,  which  had  been  cut  by  a knife, 
abruptly  ended.  The  second  one,  written  after  a lapse  of 
fifty  years,  was  in  still  firmer,  clearer  characters  than  the 
first.  Jacques  translated  it  as  follows  : 

“ It  is  now  fifty  years  since  the  spirits  of  light  brought  me 
to  this  high  Himalayan  cave.  I am  now  permitted  to  add, 
to  the  narration  of  my  disobedience,  a brief  account  of  what 
has  since  befallen  me.  This  I am  also  to  be  permitted  to 
seal  in  a vase  and  leave  part  way  down  the  side  of  my  moun- 
tain prison,  so  that  some  one  may  find  it  and  give  to  the 
world  information  as  to  what  has  liappened  to  me.  The 
finder  of  this  vase  and  parchments  must  proclaim  what  I 
have  written.  Doing,  or  failing  to  do,  this*  will  gain  for 
him  that  whicli  I liad  invoked  upon  him  for  the  perform- 
ingor  neglectingof  something  else,  regarding  which  I have 
decided  otherwise,  and  the  mention  of  which  I have 
severed  from  the  first  parchment. 

“ My  life  in  this  place  is  prolonged  by  natural  means. 
When  I first  came  here,  my  years  were  fifty  ; since  then,  a 
second  fifty  years  have  passed,  and  my  age  is  now  a hun- 
dred years.  Nor  is  the  end  to  come  yet.  My  present  age 
may  yet  be  doubled.  This  vast  height  has  worked  a change 


THE  HIMALAYAN  PRISONER. 


ig2 

in  me  nearly  as  great  as  the  one  wrought  by  me,  fifty  years 
ago,  which  sent  me  here.  Death  is  the  wasting  and 
exhausting  of  vital  elements.  To  stop  this  waste,  is  to 
overcome  death.  To  retard  this  waste,  is  to  keep  death  at 
greater  distance.  At  this  great  height,  there  is  so  little 
waste,  or  exhaustion,  that  my  life  may  easily  run  twice  or 
thrice  its  present  length.  When  I first  came  here,  the  in- 
tense cold  I thought  would  soon  prove  fatal.  But  very 
soon  that  part  of  me  which  was  perceptive  of  the  cold 
passed  out  of  existence  for  me.  Even  the  sharp  winds, 
which  perpetually  sweep  this  summit,  do  not  inflict  upon 
me  any  sensation  of  coldness  or  discomfort.  Strangely 
enough,  it  is  now  impossible  for  me  to  live  except  at  this 
extreme  height.  I am  now  often  permitted  to  go  part  way 
down  the  mountain,  but  soon  a sense  of  suffocation  comes 
upon  me  and  I am  forced  to  retrace  my  steps. 

“The  kind  of  sustenance  which  keeps  me  in  life  I am 
not  permitted  to  speak  of. 

“ My  interest  in  those  I love  is  still  unchanged,  and  I am 
permitted  to  know  what  comes  to  them,  though  they  have 
no  knowledge  of  me  since  the  shadowy  ones  brought  me 
here.  I know  nothing  of  their  future  or  mine,  that  being 
hidden  from  me.  I only  know  the  past,  and  that,  since  it 
has  brought  so  much  of  good  to  my  wife  and  daughters,  I 
would  not  change  if  I could.” 

And  here  the  second  parchment  ended.  The  others 
contained  simple,  uninteresting  notes.  According  to  them, 
this  remarkable  man’s  life  was,  altogether,  prolonged  to 
about  three  hundred  years,  at  least.  How  much  longer, 
we  could  not  tell.  Of  course,  we  could  only  judge  by  the 
records.  Every  fifty  years  a new  scrap  of  parchment  was 
added  to  the  vase — the  last  one  about  seven  hundred  years 
before  we  found  it. 

The  last  scrap  contained  these  words:  “My  family  is 
gradually  branching  and  increasing.  Best  of  all,  my  name 
is  being  kept  from  oblivion.  The  world  still  remembers 
me.  My  vitality  is  now  running  low.  Old  age,  which  in 
the  lower  world  I would  have  felt  more  than  two  hundred 
years  ago,  is  now  coming  upon  me.  It  is  doubtful  if  I 
shall  ever  add  another  one  to  this  record.  Since  two  hun- 
dred years  have  passed  without  this  vase  being  discovered, 

I doubt  if  any  one  will  ever  find  it.  If,  at  last,  it  is  found, 
and  my  name  is  still  remembered,  I leave  it  to  the  finder 
to  judge  whether  that  which  1 have  written  merits  telling 
to  the  world  which  once  knew  and  honored  me. 


THE  HIMALAYAN  PRISONER, 


193 


The  vase  in  which  I seal  these  parchments,  and  the 
parchments  themselves,  were  left  here  by  the  hermit  who 
lived  in  this  cave  before  me.  I shall  seal  this  vase,  and 
secure  it  in  a niche  in  a rock,  in  the  mountain,  below  me, 
where  some  day  it  may  arrest  some  human  eye.” 

Jacques,  when  he  had  finished  reading,  was  determined 
to  make  the  ascent  of  the  mountain  at  all  hazards,  discover 
the  cave,  of  which  the  parchments  told  us,  and  see  what 
we  should  find  there.  It  required  all  the  persuasion  there 
was  in  Henri  and  I,  to  dissuade  Jacques  from  this  purpose. 

It  dazed  me.  It  was  the  first  time  in  my  whole  life  that 
I had  regarded  anything  gravely.  But  the  vase  and  the 
parchments  subdued  and  quieted  me.  I felt  an  incompre- 
hensible interest  in  the  wliole  matter. 

Henri  took  but  one  view  of  the  matter.  To  him,  the 
whole  thing  was  a hoax.  He  said  that  the  mysterious 
disappearance  of  Ferahki,  centuries  ago,  had  induced 
some  lover  of  sensation  to  perpetrate  this  thing  as  an 
imposition  upon  whoever  might  run  across  the  vase  in  the 
niche. 

To  this,  of  course,  Jacques  would  not  listen.  He  was 
thoroughly  convinced  that  the  alleged  Ferahki  parchments 
were  genuine. 

Because  of  the  doubts  entertained  by  Henri,  Jacques 
decided  that  it  would  not  be  wise  to  announce  our  dis- 
covery. A few  days  afterward  we  went  to  Calcutta,  taking 
our  treasures  with  us.  The  parchments  were  shown, 
privately,  to  some  savants,  who  declared  them  genuine. 
Not  until  then  were  Henri’s  doubts  removed,  and  he  then 
declared  that  Ferahki  was  insane,  and  that  he  had  written 
all  of  the  parchments  at  once. 

After  a short  stay  in  Calcutta,  Henri  and  Jacques  re- 
turned to  Paris,  leaving  me  behind,  for  reasons  of  my  own. 
The  vase  and  parchments  were  also  left  with  me.  When 
they  were  gone,  I went  to  considerable  trouble  to  obtain 
all  accessible  information  concerning  Ferahki.  Of  course 
there  was  nothing  to  be  found  which  had  any  bearing  on 
the  spiritual  contents  of  the  parchments,  and  scientists 
could  not  speak  advisedly  of  the  effect  of  high  altitudes  in 
the  matter  of  prolonging  life  ; but  both  history  and  tradi- 
tion seemed  to  corroborate  the  rest  of  the  supposed  Fer- 
ahki writings. 

Everyone  who  saw  the  parchments  commented  on  one 
point — that  was  the  peculiarly  graceful  form  of  the  San- 
skrit writing.  This  was  mentioned  and  reiterated  until  a 

n 


194 


THE  HIM  ALA  VAN  PRISONER, 


most  profound  impression  was,  by  it,  made  upon  me.  I 
thought  that  I,  at  least,  would  be  fully  convinced  that 
there  was  no  hoax  about  the  parchments,  if  I only  could 
find  some  other  piece  of  Ferahki’s  writing.  But  my  every 
effort  in  this  direction  resulted  in  failure. 

At  last  some  impulse,  more  or  less  unaccountable, 
caused  me  to  go  back  again  to  the  Vale  of  Cashmere. 
One  of  the  little  villages  so  delighted  me  that  I decided 
to  make  it  my  home  for  a time. 

It  was  a delightful  and  poetic  spot,  and  each  hour  I 
spent  there  increased  its  fascinations  for  me.  Besides  the 
cultured  natives,  there  were  also  many  Europeans  in  the 
pretty  little  place,  who  found  it  as  charming  as  I did. 
One  thing  here  pleased  me  especially  well : There  was  no 
one  among  them  all  who  had  heard  even  the  merest  whis- 
per of  the  Ferahki  parchments,  and  this  was  a great  relief 
to  me,  since  for  the  last  montli  I had  heard  nothing  else 
talked  of. 

Late  one  afternoon,  as  I was  passing  a clump  of  beauti- 
ful palms,  which  had,  as  a central  ornament,  a deep,  clear, 
lovely  pool,  I heard  a ripple  of  girlish  laughter  and  a 
splash  in  the  water.  Almost  without  thinking,  I entered 
the  grove  and  approached  the  margin  of  the  pool. 

The  memory  of  what  I then  saw  will  never  leave  me. 
It  was  a vision  so  rare  and  holy  that  but  few  are  ever 
favored  with  it,  and  none  more  than  once  in  a lifetime. 
A girl  of  eighteen  or  nineteen  years,  in  all  the  splendor  of 
perfect  womanhood  when  it  is  first  full,  complete,  and  ripe, 
was  bathing  in  the  pool.  There  was  enough  Hindu  blood 
in  her  to  accord  to  her  that  matchless  grace  of  outline 
which  is  never  the  lot  of  any  European  woman,  but  some 
European  blood  predominated — English,  I thought. 

For  an  hour  she  gamboled  in  the  pool,  and  then,  throw- 
ing her  loose  garments  on  carelessly,  and  with  the  most 
perfect  air  of  unconsciousness  I ever  knew,  she  walked 
slowly  away. 

Following  closely  in  her  wake,  I found  out  her  home.  It 
was  with  an  English  family,  which  was  said  to  have  several 
times  intermarried  with  high  caste  Hindus.  Obtaining  an 
introduction  to  them  was  easy  enough,  and  I found  that 
the  beautiful  girl,  who  had  so  enraptured  me,  had  as  many 
graces  of  mind  as  she  had  of  person. 

And  often  as  possible  I was  with  her;  and  soon  we  be- 
came almost  inseparable  companions.  I was  madly  in 
love  with  her  almost  from  the  first,  and  took  no  pains  to 


THE  HIMALAYAS  PRISONER, 


19S 

conceal  it.  Her  family  seemed  deeply  gratified  by  my  at- 
tentions, and  she  herself  was  far  from  indifferent.  Every 
night  she  used  to  figure  in  my  dreams,  and  one  night, 
with  her,  the  Ferahki  parchments  were  hopelessly  confused. 
The  dream  ended  by  the  sudden  appearance  of  old 
Ferahki  himself,  who  took  the  girl’s  hand,  placed  it  in 
mine,  and  then  vanished. 

The  next  morning  Ferahki  and  the  girl  filled  about 
equal  shares  in  my  thoughts.  It  was  the  first  time  I had 
given  him  a thought  for  several  weeks.  That  evening,  in 
some  way,  I scarcely  know  how,  the  conversation  turned 
upon  Sanskrit  writings,  and  the  girl  said  that  she  had 
some  rare  specimens  which  she  would  show  me  if  I was 
interested.  I begged  her  to  do  so,  and  she  immediately 
brought  me  several  ancient  parchments,  all  of  which  had 
some  bearing  upon  her  family — or  the  Hindu  part  of  it. 

I examined  them  with  a degree  of  indifference  which 
did  not  bear  me  out  in  the  interest  I had  evinced,  and  she 
was  somewhat  disappointed  ; when  all  at  once,  my  atten- 
tion was  riveted  upon  one  bit  of  parchment,  which  fasci- 
nated me  as  a snake-charmer  fascinates  a snake.  It  was 
done  in  that  peculiarly  graceful  form  of  Sanskrit  charac- 
ters which  had  won  so  much  comment  for  the  parchments 
that  I had  found  in  the  vase  in  the  rock-niche,  away  up  in 
the  Himalayas. 

‘‘Ferahki?”  I exclaimed. 

“Yes,  Ferahki,”  she  assented  ; “but  what  do  you  know 
of  him  ? ” 

“ Everything,”  I answered  ; and  then  I told  her  the 
whole  story.  She  was  very  much  agitated  and  expressed 
the  strongest  desire  to  see  the  vase  and  its  remarkable 
contents.  I went  and  got  it  at  once,  and  was  intensely 
surprised  to  note  the  trembling  of  her  hands  as  she  exam- 
ined the  ancient  relics. 

“Now,  read  this,”  she  said,  handing  me  her  own  bit  of 
the  Ferahki  parchment. 

It  was  a letter  to  his  wife,  which  was  written  at  the  time 
of  his  disappearance.  It  told  her  of  the  man  and  woman 
whose  souls  had  undergone  transposition  through  his  in- 
tervention with  the  occult  powers.  And  it  also  informed 
her  that  the  gold  which  accompanied  the  letter  was  that 
which  he  had  received  for  doing  this  forbidden  deed. 
There  was,  also,  in  it,  an  intimation  that  some  awful  pun- 
ishment might  befall  him  for  breaking  this  foremost  of  all 
laws. 


196 


THE  HIMALAYAN  PRISONER. 


“ Is  it  not  a corroboration  of  your  parchments?”  she 
demanded,  when  I had  done  reading.  Does  not  the  one 
sustain  and  support  the  other?” 

‘‘Yes,”  I said,  “ but  how  came  you  by  this  ?” 

“It  has  been  handed  down  to  us  from  generation  to 
generation,  ever  since  Ferahki’s  day.  The  family  has 
never  once  lost  sight  of  it  in  all  these  thousand  years 
since  then.” 

“And  you  are  of  his  family?”  I asked. 

“ He  was  my  ancestor,”  she  answered  proudly. 

She  has  now  been  my  wife  for  twenty  years,  and  as  I 
look  upon  our  children — hers  and  mine — I often  hope  that 
some  one  of  them  may  have  the  hardihood  to  brave  the 
perils  of  that  awful  summit,  and  see  if  any  trace  of  their 
famous  ancestor  still  exists  in  that  prison  cave. 


IN  CLANKING  CHAINS 


The  day  was  warm  ; the  sun  was  shining  ; the  skies  and 
the  hills  were  soft  with  the  mellow  haze  of  autumn. 

But  for  the  purple  on  the  grapes,  and  the  decadence  of 
the  flowers,  one  would  have  thought  that  it  was  still  sum- 
mer, so  mild  and  balmy  was  the  air. 

All  nature,  save  the  winds,  was  in  a drowse  ; and  they, 
sleepily  enough,  too,  were  striving  at  playfulness.  One 
moment  the  bracing  sea  breeze  was  blown  eastward  from 
the  Bay  of  Biscay,  and  the  next  moment  the  drier  air  of 
the  eastern  mountains  prevailed  ; neither  being  sufficient 
to  scarcely  rustle  the  leafage  on  tree  or  vine. 

Ninette,  a woman  in  graceful  shapeliness,  but  a child  in 
all  else,  sat  swishing  her  bare  feet  through  the  clear  water 
of  a little  isolated  river,  in  a sheltering  grove. 

Her  brown  fingers  were  weaving  a wreath  of  leaves  and 
half-dead  flowers,  and  with  closed  lips  she  was  humming 
a little  song  which  gurgled  in  her  throat  like  bird-music. 

It  was  one  of  those  sweet,  simple  pastoral  airs,  which 
have  become  quite  as  much  a part  of  the  lives  of  the 
people  of  France,  as  the  love  which  they  bear  their  chil- 
dren. 

Finally  she  finished  her  wreath. 

Then  the  song,  no  longer  suppressed,  burst  forth  like  a 
hymn  of  triumph,  and  filled  all  the  grove  with  its  joyous  in- 
tensity and  flute-like  sweetness.  She  sang  with  all  her 
might,  and  few  women,  even  in  France,  where  there  is  so 
much  song  and  music,  have  such  voices. 

Two  men  who  were  near  the  grove,  though  neither  was 
aware  of  the  other’s  presence,  began  advancing  toward  the 
singer.  One  of  them  was  old  and  gray,  with  the  dusky 
cheeks  and  poetic  eyes  of  Italy.  The  other  was  a soldier, 
young,  and  with  a vicious  face.  The  old  man  apparently 
knew  the  voice  which  he  was  hastening  toward,  and  an  ex- 


198 


IN  CLANKING  CHAINS, 


pression  of  mingled  dread  and  pleasure  came  upon  his  face. 
He  reached  the  girl,  first,  and  seeing  him,  the  soldier 
paused.  The  girl  gave  the  old  man  a smile  of  recognition 
and  welcome  as  she  hastily  drew  together  the  half-open 
front  of  her  dress. 

Child,”  said  the  old  man,  are  you  doing  wisely  to 
sing  here  by  yourself  ? The  country  is  full  of  soldiers.” 

But  they  are  French  soldiers.  Father  Antonio  ; and  my 
father  is  a Frenchman.  That  ” 

“No  matter  ; they  are  also  men  ; and  you  might  be 
harmed  if  they  found  you  here  alone.” 

For  a moment  she  was  silent  and  a slight  frown  came 
upon  her  face.  He  sighed  and  shook  his  head.  It  seemed 
such  a pity  that  with  her  fifteen  years  she  had  gained  no 
knowledge  of  the  dangers  which  ever  threaten  inno- 
cence and  beauty. 

And  yet — innocence  is  woman’s  greatest,  holiest  charm, 
only  the  world  does  not  respect  it. 

“ Are  all  men  so  bad,  then  ? ” she  asked,  almost  pettishly. 

“ Believe  me,  child,  all  men  are  bad,”  he  answered, 
sadly. 

“ But  you  are  a man,  and  so  is  my  father,”  she  retorted. 

“ Your  father  and  I are  old  now.  I have  sinned  enough 
in  my  day,  and  so,  likely,  has  he.  It  is  from  the  young 
that  evil  is  most  likely  to  come  to  you,  though  you  are 
lovely  enough  to  tempt  anyone.” 

She  was  lying  upon  the  ground  with  one  of  her  bare 
feet  still  in  the  water.  The  gnarled  and  sloping  roots  of  a 
tree,  robbed  by  some  tempest  of  their  covering  of  earth, 
furnished  a pillow  for  her  head  and  shoulders. 

She  had  thrust  one  of  her  bare  arms  through  the  wreath, 
and  it  lay  against  her  round  throat  like  some  talisman 
given  by  a protecting  god. 

There  was  a smile  on  her  lips  and  in  her  eyes.  Lost  in 
some  purely  childish  reverie,  she  had  already  forgotten 
the  old  man’s  warning  words,  and  the  momentary  pain 
whicli  she  had  felt  at  the  vague  evil  that  they  seemed  to 
portend. 

Watching  her,  he  sighed  again.  Then,  drawing  some 
pencils  and  a simple  album,  made  of  sheets  of  common 
paper,  from  a pouch  at  his  side,  he  began  making  a sketch 
of  her  lithe,  slender,  but  exquisite  figure. 

The  soldier,  who  had  drawn  quite  near  unperceived, 
was  watching  them  both  with  a cynical  smile. 

“Ah,  my  beauty,”  he  muttered,  “ but  for  this  cursed  war 


JN  CLANKING  CHAINS. 


199 


I’d  win  your  love,  or — carry  you  oil  without  your  love  ; 
whichever  was  easiest.  I will  wait  until  that  sketch  is 
done.  May  be  the  old  fool  will  sell  it  to  me.  If  he  re- 
fuses, ril  have  it  any  way,  and  kiss  the  maid  besides  !” 

And  then,  to  avoid  discovery  before  he  was  ready  to  be 
seen,  he  concealed  himself  behind  some  vines. 

She  had  stripped  some  of  the  leaves  in  her  wreath  from 
the  same  vines. 

Still  she  mused,  and  still  the  old  man  sketched.  The 
picture  was  done  before  she  was  aroused  from  her  reverie. 

“ See,  Ninette,”  he  said,  “I  have  sketched  you  ; imper- 
fectly, true  enough,  but  still  it  is  a tolerably  fair  likeness.” 

She  sprang  to  her  feet  and  hastened  to  his  side. 

The  picture  was  as  faithful  as  art  could  be  to  such 
beauty  as  hers,  and  he  placed  it  in  her  hands  with  par- 
donable pride. 

Eagerly  she  scanned  it,  and  with  varying  color.  A glow 
of  excitement  came  into  her  eyes.  Some  powerful  emo- 
tion, too  deep  for  his  ken,  moved  her. 

‘‘Truly,  Father  Antonio,  am  I like  that?  Is  it  really  a 
picture  of  me  ? ” she  asked,  almost  breathlessly,  as  her 
cheeks  reddened  and  her  large  eyes  darkened. 

“You  are  better,  far  better  than  that,”  he  answered, 
reverently.  “ It  is  quite  like  you,  but  still  it  is  beyond  the 
skill  of  any  artist  to  catch  the  strange  subtleness  one  sees 
in  you,  an  indescribable  something  which  I doubt  if  any 
other  woman  has.” 

The  excitement  in  her  face  was  displaced  by  wonder- 
ment, and  that  in  turn  by  contentment.  Then  the  dreamy 
look  came  into  her  eyes  again,  and  a single  tear  rolled 
•"down  each  of  her  cheeks. 

The  old  man  laid  by  his  hat  and  bowed  his  gray  head 
before  the  rare  young  creature  he  had  just  transferred  to  a 
leaf  of  his  album.  His  pencils  fell  from  his  fingers  and  lay 
between  his  feet  unnoticed. 

“ It  is  a very  beautiful  picture,”  she  murmured,  softly. 

“You  are  a very  beautiful  woman,”  he  answered,  in  the 
same  tone. 

A woman!  A beautiful  woman  ! The  words  sent  a strange 
thrill  through  her.  She  had  never  been  called  a woman 
before.  The  old  man’s  picture  and  his  words  had  opened 
a new  world  to  her.  Suddenly,  and  strangely,  her  child- 
hood seemed  dead  to  her.  The  old  life  was  rolled  up,  like 
a scroll,  and  put  away  forever.  She  was  possessed  of  some- 
thing in  which  were  mingled  joy  and  regret.  Never  again 


200 


IN  CLANKING  CHAINS, 


could  she  be  as  she  had  been  before  : she  was  a woman 
now  ! Instinct,  rather  than  reason,  told  her  what  the  word 
meant,  but  instinct  never  tells  one-half  enough,  and  she 
was  all  unarmed  for  the  truth  which  had  been  so  suddenly 
thrust  upon  her.  Unarmed  and  unready  to  meet  what  it 
might  require  ! A child  one  instant  and  a woman  the 
next ! Such  development  is  dangerous. 

She  glanced  down  at  her  bare  feet  with  a sense  of  shame 
which  she  had  never  known  before.  Her  cheeks  burned, 
and  her  lashes  drooped,  as  the  thought  came  that  her  arms 
and  bosom  were  no  better  protected  than  her  feet. 

The  old  man  saw  her  confusion,  understood  and  re- 
spected it. 

“You  must  be  very  careful  about  the  soldiers,”  he  said, 
softly. 

“ I will  be  very  careful.  Father  Antonio,”  she  answered, 
tremulously. 

Still  she  but  half  understood.  To  her  pure  mind,  the 
only  womanly  shame  in  the  world  was  the  shame  of  naked- 
ness. An  almost  stifling  sense  of  pain  came  to  the  old  man 
because  of  the  dangers  which,  sooner  or  later,  she  must 
meet  and  do  battle  against,  dangers  of  which  she  was  so 
pitifully  ignorant. 

Would  God  guard  her,  he  wondered,  or  would  the  Dark 
One  destroy  her,  as  he  had  so  many  innocents  before  her  ? 

For  the  first  time  he  cursed  himself  because  of  his  pov- 
erty. 

In  sunny  Italy,  in  the  glad  days  of  his  boyhood,  they  had 
said  that  he  had  genius.  Perhaps  they  were  right  ; he  be- 
lieved they  were,  for  he  was  artist  enough  to  judge  his  own 
work  justly  and  to  appreciate  its  merits  as  well  as  deplore 
its  faults.  But  he  had  no  tact.  Other  artists,  who  were  in 
every  other  sense  inferior  to  him,  could  manage  to  sell  the 
veriest  daubs  for  a hundred  times  the  price  he  could  get 
for  a finished  study,  which  was  the  work  of  weeks  of  hun- 
ger, pain,  and  patient  toil. 

So  he  had  always  been  poor. 

Age  had  come  upon  him,  and  he  was  in  no  way  pre- 
pared for  it.  Forsaking  Italy,  he  had  wandered  into 
France,  doing  often,  for  a single  coarse  meal,  pieces  of  art 
more  wonderful  than  those  which  had  made  many  another 
famous  throughout  the  world.  It  was  years  since  he  had 
been  able  to  purchase  colors,  and  he  was  so  very  poor  that 
it  was  often  impossible  even  to  get  paper  and  pencils. 

Never  before,  though,  had  his  poverty  made  him  bitter. 


IN  CLANKING  CHAINS. 


201 


Now  if  he  but  had  the  money  his  wasted  work  should 
have  brought  him,  he  could  save  this  innocent  one  from 
the  snares  and  pitfalls  which  were  ever  at  the  feet  of  such 
as  she. 

She  was  only  a peasant’s  daughter,  only  a thoughtless 
child,  before  his  picture  and  his  words  had  awakened  her 
dormant  womanhood  ; but  to  him  she  was  the  supremest 
marvel  since  creation’s  dawn.  He  loved  her  as  a father 
loves  his  daughter  when  his  course  of  life  is  nearly  run, 
and  she  is  all  that  earth  holds  for  him. 

He  glanced  at  her  with  a deep  sigh  of  regret  at  his  ina- 
bility to  help  her.  She  was  looking  at  the  sketch,  which 
she  still  held  in  her  hands. 

It  is  a very  beautiful  picture,”  she  murmured  again, 
as  if  unconscious  that  she  had  said  the  same  words  before  ; 
and  he  repeated  his  former  answer  : 

You  are  a very  beautiful  woman.” 

That  moment  there  was  a crash  in  the  vines,  and  the 
soldier  stepped  forward. 

‘‘  You  have  told  the  truth,  old  man,”  he  said,  she  is  cer- 
tainly beautiful  enough,  but  I have  no  doubt  she  prefers 
hearing  it  from  younger  lips  than  yours.” 

“ What  do  you  want  ? ” demanded  Antonio. 

What  is  that  to  you  ? ” 

Nothing,  perhaps  ; and,  perhaps,  everything.  If  you 
are  an  honest  man  and  worthy  of  your  uniform,  you  will 
go  away  at  once  and  leave  this  maid  with  me.” 

“No  honest  man  would  leave  so  lovely  a woman  alone 
in  the  woods  with  such  a ragged  vagabond  as  you.” 

The  old  man  frowned  and  drew  himself  up  proudly. 

“ Let  me  tell  you,  sir,  soldier,  that  it  takes  more  than 
rags  to  make  the  vagabond,  just  as  it  takes  more  than 
bright  buttons  and  war  colors  to  make  the  man.” 

The  soldier  laughed. 

“Really,  if  you  were  younger,  and  still  so  insolent.  I’d 
run  my  sword  through  you — unless  you  proved  a better 
man  with  the  blade  than  I.” 

“Try  it,”  retorted  Antonio. 

Again  the  soldier  laughed. 

“ You  bluster  well,”  he  said.  “ Come,  old  man,  you  but 
waste  your  rage  on  me  ; I am  good-nature’s  self.  Besides, 
my  purpose  is  an  honest  one.  I doubt  if  you  are  fit  com- 
pany for  this  young  woman.  When  I find  that  you  are  I 
will  most  humbly  beg  your  pardon.  I am  a soldier — a 
true  son  of  France.  In  this  maid  I see  a countrywoman 


202 


IN  CLANKING  CHAINS, 


of  mine,  whom  duty,  at  least,  compels  me  to  protect.  Do 
not  look  sour.  When  in  the  history  of  France  did  the 
brave  ever  desert  the  fair  ? Anyway,  if  it  has  happened, 
it  is  not  going  to  happen  now.  I shall  take  this  maiden  to 
her  home— you  shall  lead  the  way,  if  you  know  it.  Once 
there,  if  her  parents  bid  you  welcome,  you  may  slap  my 
face  with  your  flat  hand  and  I will  not  resent  it.” 

Let  him  do  it.  Father  Antonio,”  said  Ninette.  ‘‘What 
he  says  sounds  fair.” 

“ Yes,  it  sounds  fair,  but  it’s  only  a devil’s  trick.  This 
villain  wants  to  find  out  your  home.” 

“ Do  not  believe  him,”  said  the  soldier  to  Ninette. 
“Truly,  1 am  sincere.  It  would  be  against  my  manhood 
to  leave  you  with  this  old  beggar  unless  I know  he  has  a 
right.” 

“ But  he  has,”  she  answered.  “He  lives  with  us  in  our 
poor  home.” 

“ Ah  ! girl,  that  excuse  has  served  many  a maiden  when 
danger  threatened  her  lover.  I cannot  believe  that  the 
roof  which  honors  itself  by  sheltering  you  is  also  disgraced 
by  this  ragged  pauper,  except  that  the  mischief  has  already 
been  done,  and  that  you  are  living  alone  with  him  in 
shame.” 

“ Ragged !”  she  exclaimed,  impatiently;  “why,  I am 
scarcely  less  so.” 

“ But  your  beauty  idealizes  your  rags.  They  are  made 
invisible  by  your  face,  while  this  old  vagabond  is  not  so 
favored.” 

He  looked  at  her  in  rapt  wonderment,  entirely  failing  to 
understand  why,  in  her  innocence,  she  only  saw  insolence 
in  his  allusion  to  the  old  man’s  rags.  He  doubted  if  she 
was  full-witted  ; to  the  grossly-minded  there  is  no  inno- 
cence, save  in  imbeciles  and  in  babes. 

While  he  was  staring  at  her,  half  in  pity  and  half  in  con- 
tempt, old  Antonio  was  more  active.  He  had  crept,  noise- 
lessly and  unnoticed,  to  the  soldier’s  side,  and  his  fingers 
were  reaching  out  for  the  impudent  fellow’s  sword.  Sud- 
denly the  old  artist  clutched  the  hilt  and  snatched  the 
coveted  weapon  from  its  sheath. 

“ Now,  sir  soldier,”  he  cried,  “you  shall  dance,  while  I 
fiddle.” 

“ Give  me  back  my  sword,  old  man,”  said  the  soldier. 
“ Surely  you  will  not  take  my  jesting  so  illy  ?” 

“ Oh,  no  ; why  should  I ? It  was  most  excellent  jesting, 
and  only  puts  me  in  humor  fora  jest  or  two  myself.  Now, 


IN  CLANKING  CHAINS, 


203 


Ninette,  hurry  home  and  I will  keep  this  jolly  soldier  here 
until  you  are  out  of  harm’s  way.  If  he  does  not  stand  still 
ril  run  him  through^  and  with  his  own  blade.  That’s  an- 
other jest,  and  one  which  can  be  appreciated,  even  by 
those  who  wear  no  uniforms.” 

“ I think  you  are  wrong,  Father  Antonio.  I am  sure  he 
meant  us  no  harm,  though  it  was  not  respectful  of  him  to 
speak  as  he  did  of  your  rags.” 

The  soldier’s  eyes  moved  from  the  girl’s  face  to  the  old 
man’s. 

“Tell  me,”  he  said,  “if  this  woman  is  a fool.  Her 
eyes  seem  bright  enough,  but  she  talks  as  if  her  wits  were 
dull.” 

“ So  far  as  sinful  knowledge  is  concerned,  she  is  a child,” 
said  Antonio.  “ If  you  and  your  fellow  soldiers  tarry  here 
long,  though.  I’ve  no  doubt  she  will  become  as  apt  as  the 
other  women  you  know.” 

A look  of  compassion  came  over  the  soldier’s  face. 

“ What  a pity  to  have  her  find  out  the  truth  ! ” he  said, 
with  a sigh. 

“Yes,”  said  Antonio,  “ and  that  is  why  I took  your 
sword.” 

“ You  were  right,”  said  the  soldier.  “ I never  saw  such 
a woman  before.  To  be  honest,  I did  mean  her  harm,  she 
is  so  beautiful.  But  you  could  not  make  me  injure  her 
now — even  with  the  point  of  that  sword  at  my  throat.” 

“ Do  you  mean  it  ? ” asked  the  old  man,  eagerly. 

“ I swear  it,  on  my  honor  as  a soldier.  You  have  aright 
to  doubt  me,  though.  I deserve  that.” 

“ I believe  you,”  said  Antonio.  “ I can  see  truth  in  your 
eyes.  Here  is  your  sword.” 

“ Give  me  your  hand  first.” 

The  two  men  clasped  hands,  and  then  Antonio  slid  the 
sword  back  into  the  sheath  which  he  had  taken  it  from. 

Ninette  watched  them  vaguely,  as  if  she  had  grave 
doubts  of  their  sanity.  Then  she  picked^  up  Antonio’s 
pencils  and  album  and  put  them  in  his  pouch.  The  sketch 
which  he  had  made  of  her  could  not  be  found,  though  An- 
tonio and  the  soldier  helped  her  look  for  it. 

“ The  soldier,  amazed  and  bewildered,  sat  down  by  the 
water  in  silence.  Near  his  hand  was  the  wreath  which 
Ninette  had  made  of  the  leaves  and  dead  flowers.  He 
picked  it  up  as  tenderly  as  if  it  had  been  a living  thing, 
while  reverent  tears  came  into  his  eyes. 

Antonio  and  the  girl  moved  slowly  away. 


204 


IN  CLANKING  CNAINS, 


'‘France  is  worth  fighting  for,  after  all/’  muttered  the 
soldier.  " One  such  woman  is  worth  all  the  lives  in  the 
French  army.” 

When  he  aroused  himself,  and  rose  to  his  feet,  Ninette 
and  the  old  man  were  out  of  sight. 

It  hurt  the  soldier  for  a moment  to  think  that  they  had 
stolen  away  from  him  so,  but  still  he  did  not  blame  them. 

“It  was  Avisest,”  he  said,  sadly;  “such  a jewel  is  not 
likely  to  be  too  jealously  guarded.”  And  then  he,  too, 
walked  slowly  from  the  grove. 

As  he  was  emerging  from  the  shelter  of  the  trees  some- 
thing rustled  at  his  feet. 

It  was  Antonio’s  sketch  of  Ninette.  The  wind  had  blown 
it  there. 

He  picked  it  up,  carried  it  with  him  to  his  tent,  and 
concealed  it.  But  some  prying  eye  spied  out  the  secret  of 
its  hiding-place,  and  it  was  shown  to  the  general,  a rough, 
coarse  brute,  who  respected  neither  innocence  nor  virtue. 
The  picture  of  the  beautiful  girl  filled  him  with  a desire  to 
see  the  girl  herself.  He  at  once  had  the  soldier  sum- 
moned and  plied  him  with  questions. 

The  brave  fellow  had  already  resolved  to  shield  Ninette 
with  his  life,  if  any  occasion  demanded  it,  and  so  he  de- 
liberately informed  the  general  that  it  was  merely  a fancy 
picture  which  he  had  found  in  a shop  in  Paris. 

“ Why  did  you  bring  it  with  you  here,  then  ?”  demanded 
the  general. 

“ Because — it  is  so  beautiful.” 

“Very  well  ; I will  keep  it  for  the  same  reason  until  I 
find  the  original.  But  mark  you  one  thing  : if  I find  her 
near  this  camp  you  go  into  chains.” 

The  soldier  tremWed  as  he  walked  away.  He  cared 
nothing  about  the  chains  ; he  would  wear  them  willingly 
all  his  days  if  that  would  only  keep  the  girl  safe  from  the 
general. 

He  must  find  Antonio  if  possible,  and  warn  him  to  keep 
Ninette  out  of  sight  of  the  general  and  his  minions. 

That  very  day,  he  saw  the  old  man  and  told  him  of  the 
general’s  unholy  quest.  But  it  brought  about  the  very 
thing  he  was  so  anxious  to  avoid.  A spy  overheard  them 
and  followed  Antonio  straight  to  Ninette  and  her  father. 

That  night  the  soldier  was  dragged  from  his  tent,  put 
in  chains,  and  taken  to  his  general.  Once  in  the  general’s 
tent,  he  knew  what  his  arrest  meant,  for  there,  under  guard, 
and,  like  him,  in  chains,  were  Antonio  and  Ninette’s  father. 


IN  CLAiVKING  CHAINS. 


205 


“ Here,”  said  the  angry  general,  as  they  also  brought 
Ninette  forward,  “is  the  woman  whose  picture  you  lied  to 
me  about.  Will  you  tell  me  why  you  did  so  ?” 

The  soldier  bowed  his  head  for  an  instant  and  then 
straiglitened  himself  up  proudly. 

“ It  was  the  only  way,”  he  replied,  “ in  which  I could 
protect  her  from  your  lust.” 

“That  speech  will  cost  you  your  life,  and  you  can  be 
sure  that  it  will  make  matters  none  the  easier  for  her,” 
snarled  the  general,  with  an  oath. 

“ If  I could  first  end  your  life,”  retorted  the  soldier,  “ I 
should  be  little  concerned  about  my  own.” 

“ Ha ! ha  ! ” laughed  the  general,  fiendishly,  “ in  that 
thought  is  sweet  satisfaction  for  me.  You  die  for  nothing 
— absolutely  nothing.  It  will  be  such  a purposeless,  im- 
soldierlike  death  ; without  even  romance  in  it  to  console 
you.  You  shall  not  die  for  France,  nor  for  this  woman 
you  love.  You  are  a traitor  I Your  lying  to  me  about  this 
peasant’s  daughter  makes  you  such,  and  as  such  you  shall 
be  shot.  These  other  men,  her  father  and  this  old  Italian, 
are  also  worthy  of  death,  because  they  resisted  my  troops. 
Three  traitors  to  be  shot  at  once  ! Oh,  it  will  be  rare  sport ! 
If  you  need  something  to  encourage  you  to  meet  death 
bravely,  remember  that  this  woman,  for  whom  you  have 
destroyed  yourself,  will  be  my  toy — until  I find  another 
who  pleases  me  better.  Ha  ! ha  ! ha  ! There,  take  them 
away,  all  of  them.  Ha  ! ha  ! ha!  ” 

Manhood  slumbered,  and  the  guardobeyed  the  general. 
Ninette  was  put  in  a tent  by  herself,  and  the  others,  with 
their  chains  clanking  at  their  wrists  and  ankles,  were  taken 
to  another  part  of  the  camp. 

All  through  the  night  the  girl  heard  those  awful  chains. 
Her  country’s  funeral  dirge  would  have  greeted  her  ears 
less  mournfully.  Just  before  daybreak  she  dreamed  that 
the  chains  had  been  taken  from  her  three  friends,  heated 
hot,  and  then  twisted  about  her  own  heart. 

She  uttered  a cry  of  pain  so  shrill  that  it  reached  the 
general’s  ears.  He  at  once  came  to  her  tent.  Discovering 
the  cause  of  her  alarm,  he  bade  the  guard  retire  while  he 
talked  with  her.  The  clanking  of  the  chains  still  sounded 
in  her  ears,  and  at  sight  of  the  general  she  began  pleading 
for  her  condemned  friends. 

“ What  would  you  do  to  save  them  ? ” he  asked,  as- 
suming a compassionate  tone. 

“ Do  ! I would  do  anything.  I would  be  your  servant. 


2o6 


IN  CLANKING  CHAINS. 


your  dog — whatever  you  chose — if  you  would  only  spare 
them.  This  trouble  all  came  upon  them  because  of  me, 
and  do  you  think  that  I would  shrink  from  anything 
which  released  them  ?” 

‘‘Would  you  go  to  prison  to  save  them  ?” 

“Yes.” 

“And  always  stay  there  ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ 1 believe  you.  You  are  a brave  girl.  If  you  will  stay 
with  me  for  a year,  and  obey  me  in  everything,  I will  spare 
their  lives.” 

“ And  w^hen  the  year  is  over  I can  come  back  here  again 
to  my  father.” 

“ Certainly,  if  you  wish.” 

She  opened  lier  eyes  in  amazement.  What  he  asked 
seemed  such  a little  thing — only  to  be  his  servant  for  a 
year  ! 

“You  do  not  answer,”  he  said. 

“ What  answer  save  one  could  I make  ? ” she  responded 
quietly. 

“You — you  refuse,  then  ?” 

“No,  no  ; I accept.  Do  you  think  I’d  let  them  die  for 
such  a little  reason  ? ” 

“ Do  you  promise  to  go  with  me,  and  obey  me,  then  ?” 

“ Yes.” 

“Will  you  swear  it  ? ” he  asked,  eagerly. 

She  laughed. 

“Why,  what  a stress  you  lay  on  a trifle,”  she  answered, 
impatiently.  “Yes,  I swear  it,  if  )^ou  want  me  to.” 

“ Good  ! Then  your  father  and  the  old  Italian  shall  be 
set  free  at  once.” 

“ And  the  soldier,  too.  You  must  not  forget  him.” 

“Very  well,  then;  I’ll  forgive  him,  too.  But  he  must 
leave  my  army,  though,  for  his  disobedience.” 

“That  don’t  matter.  He  can  live  with  my  father  until 
I come  home  again.” 

One  single  qualm  of  conscience  came  over  the  villainous 
general,  but  when  it  was  gone  his  brutality  was  even  more 
relentless  than  before. 

“Your  father  will  be  angry,”  he  said,  fearing  that  he 
might  get  in  trouble  if  he  seemed  to  take  Ninette  away 
against  her  will.  “You  must  tell  him  that  you  go  with 
me  willingly,  and  that  it  is  your  own  wish.  Do  not  say, 
eitlier,  that  you  go  to  save  their  lives ; wait  until  you  come 
home,  a year  hence,  before  you  let  any  of  them  know  that.” 


IN  CLANKING  CHAINS. 


207 


I will  obey  you,”  she  said. 

An  hour  later  she  stood  before  the  general’s  tent,  when 
her  three  friends  were  brought  up. 

The  clanking  of  their  chains  still  thrilled  her  with  hor- 
ror. How  glad  she  was  that  they  were  to  be  so  quickly 
stricken  off.  What  a kind  man  the  general  was,  after  ail, 
to  pardon  them  for  her,  and  how  slight  was  the  return  he 
had  asked  her  to  make  for  it  ! The  world  seemed  very 
beautiful  to  her  that  morning. 

“ Remove  the  chains,”  commanded  the  general. 

He  was  obeyed. 

“Now,”  he  said,  “these  men  can  go  where  they  like. 
All  three  of  them  are  pardoned.” 

“ Come,  Ninette,”  said  her  father,  after  the  general  had 
been  thanked  for  his  clemency,  “ we  will  go  home.” 

She  shook  her  head. 

“ I shall  stay  with  the  general,”  she  said.  “ In  a year 
I will  come  home  again.” 

“What  can  you  mean,  child  ?”  he  cried  in  horror. 

Antonio  and  the  discharged  soldier  looked  at  each  other 
in  absolute  bewilderment. 

“ Do  not  ask  me  anything  more,”  she  said,  displeased  at 
his  manner. 

“Shall  you — submit — to  this  man?  Is  that  what  you 
mean  ? Oh,  God  ! not  that.  Come  away  at  once,”  he 
begged. 

She  pushed  him  back. 

“ I have  already  submitted,”  she  answered,  half  angrily, 
and  little  thinking  what  her  words  seemed  to  imply. 
“ Now,  kiss  me  and  go  away.” 

“ Kiss  you  ! After  that  ? Never.  I curse  you  instead  ! 
How  could  so  pure  a mother  have  brought  forth  so  vile  a 
whelp  ? I ” 

But  at  a motion  from  the  general  the  three  liberated 
men  were  seized  and  hurried  swiftly  out  of  camp. 

“ I am  glad  I am  going  with  you,”  said  Ninette  to  the 
general  ; “ my  father  is  so  rough.” 

The  three  men  went  away  with  heavy  hearts. 

“All  women  are  the  same,”  muttered  the  discharged 
soldier. 

“And  I thought  her  so  innocent!”  moaned  the  old 
artist. 

Ninette’s  father  was  weeping. 

A year  had  passed  since  they  last  saw  her,  in  the  early 


2o8 


IN  CLANKING  CHAINS. 


morning  light,  before  the  general’s  tent.  The  war  was 
now  over,  and  all  France  was  free  and  at  peace  again. 

A beautiful  woman,  sad  and  stern-faced,  left  a Paris 
salon,  by  herself,  just  at  daybreak,  and  walked  firmly  and 
swiftly  toward  the  Seine.  It  was  Ninette.  She  had  kept 
her  oath,  and  now  once  more  was  the  prisoner  freed  from 
clanking  chains.  Not  chains  of  iron  this  time,  but  chains 
of  silver  and  of  gilt.  They  were  shaken  forever  from  the 
brave  ankles  where  innocence  had  suffered  lust  to  bind 
them. 

Her  father  still  toiled  in  the  vineyard  ; old  Antonio  was 
once  more  basking  in  the  warm  sunshine  of  Italy  ; while 
the  discharged  soldier  was  still  swearing  that  there  were 
no  true  women  in  the  world.  Yet  one  true  woman  had 
paid  the  price  of  their  three  lives,  and  as  she  took  her 
cold,  fatal  plunge  into  the  Seine,  not  one  of  them  once 
imagined  the  fearful  debt  which  the  three  owed  her. 


AN  ETRUSCAN  PALACE 


It  was  a great  pile  of  marble,  made  soft  and  gray  by 
time. 

Outside  it  was  a quaint  motley  of  columns,  arches,  bal- 
conies, wide  windows  and  high  doors,  with  castellated 
roofs,  subcrowned  with  miniature  domes. 

Inside  it  was  a succession  of  noble  corridors  and  stair- 
cases, dividing  and  separating  spacious  chambers,  each 
one  large  and  grand  enough  for  a king’s  dancing-hall. 

Once  the  centre  of  all  Florentine  gayety  and  mirth,  it 
was  now  the  home  of  Guido  Lamberti,  the  last  man  of  his 
race ; a race  which,  but  for  its  ancient  splendor  and 
prowess,  would  have  been  forgotten  in  Tuscany,  Guido 
lived  in  such  utter  seclusion  and  privacy. 

The  completing  of  the  palace  was  the  work  of  several 
generations,  it  being  nine  centuries  since  the  first  Lam- 
berti and  his  sturdy  retainers  began  its  foundation.  As  it 
left  his  hands  it  was  less  than  a third  of  its  present  size. 
Each  time  there  was  a new  head  to  the  family,  new  modi- 
fications and  additions  were  made,  until  Guido  was  master, 
and  with  him  all  changes  ceased.  He  regarded  the  old 
palace  more  as  a living,  breathing  reality  than  as  an  insen- 
sate mass  of  stone,  and  he  would  have  scarcely  looked 
with  more  horror  upon  the  digging  up  and  scattering  of 
his  ancestors’  ashes,  than  he  would  upon  altering  any  part 
of  the  palace  which  had  witnessed  the  rise  and  decline  of 
his  race. 

Guido  Lamberti  was  already  past  his  seventieth  year, 
and  his  long,  flowing  white  hair,  and  still  longer  beard, 
made  him  seem  twenty  years  older  than  he  was.  He  and 
his  beautiful  granddaughter  lived  alone  in  the  ancestral 
palace  with  their  servants. 

His  father,  Giuseppe  Lamberti,  married  a singer,  a pretty 
little  doll-like  thing,  out  of  one  of  the  theatres  in  Rome. 


210 


AN  ETRUSCAN  PALACE. 


Though  he  was  the  head  of  his  family,  his  brothers  and 
sisters  sharply  criticised  him  for  choosing  such  a bride  ; 
not  that  there  was  any  harm  in  the  woman — they  only  de- 
spised the  manner  of  her  former  life.  They  went  so  far 
with  their  resentment,  that  Giuseppe,  angered  and  dis- 
gusted, drove  them  away  and  refused  to  listen  to  the 
apologetic  pleadings  which  they  were  then  eager  to  make. 

But  they  had  their  revenge. 

Failing  in  their  efforts  and  attempts  at  a reconciliation, 
they  filled  Florence  with  such  malicious  stories  about 
Giuseppe  and  his  pretty  wife,  that  the  house  of  Lamberti 
was  for  many  years  afterward  regarded  with  scorn  and 
contempt. 

When  Guido  was  born,  two  years  after  Giuseppe’s  mar- 
riage and  the  family  estrangement,  death  closed  the  eyes 
and  forever  ended  the  sorrows  of  the  wife  of  the  head  of 
the  house  of  Lamberti. 

Once  again  Giuseppe’s  relatives  essayed  peace-making, 
believing  that  sorrow  had  sufficiently  softened  his  heart  to 
make  him  approachable.  They  miscalculated,  however, 
for  he  was  more  bitter  than  ever  toward  his  brothers  and 
sisters,  and  drove  them  away,  swearing  that  they  were  the 
guilty  and  abominable  cause  of  liis  wife’s  death. 

Guido’s  youtli  was  saddened  by  almost  incessant  repe- 
titions of  the  story  of  his  father’s  marriage  and  its  results. 
In  consequence  of  the  painful  and  unpleasant  incidents  be- 
fore his  birth,  his  mother’s  mind  was  so  affected  that 
Guido’s  nature,  from  the  very  first,  was  shrinking  and  ret- 
icent. Dreading  the  harsh  things  which  were  likely  to  be 
said,  if  he  ever  entered  social  life,  Guido  adopted  the  se- 
clusion which  his  father  had  constantly  maintained  since 
the  death  of  his  wife. 

Music  was  Guido’s  solace  and  consolation  until  his 
twenty-second  year,  when  he  accompanied  his  father  on  a 
journey  through  Northern  Italy.  Then,  the  beauty  and 
grace  of  a young  Venetian  lady  made  Guido  Lamberti  for- 
sake his  violin  for  the  softer  and  rarer  music  of  a woman’s 
voice.  She  found  it  easy  to  learn  to  love  the  sensitive 
young  musician,  and  soon  became  his  wife. 

The  old  palace  in  Florence  was  closed,  and  for  ten  years 
Guido  Lamberti  lived  in  Venice  with  his  wife  and  father. 
It  was  then  that  he  returned  to  Florence,  bringing  with 
him  only  a little  girl  of  eight  or  nine  years.  In  an- 
swer to  the  questions  of  his  small  circle  of  friends,  he  sim- 
ply said ; 


AN  ETRUSCAN  PALACE, 


2II 


My  wife  and  my  father  both  died  in  the  North.  I have 
only  my  little  daughter  left.” 

There  was  something  in  his  manner,  whenever  he  said 
this,  which  seemed  to  intimate  that  in  some  way  he  had 
been  fearfully  wronged  ; but  he  never  entered  into  any- 
thing further  than  this  vague,  general  explanation,  and 
never  complained  of  his  fate,  whatever  it  was. 

He  now  devoted  himself  entirely  to  his  music,  and  to  the 
education  of  his  daughter  ;and  the  seeming  atmosphere  of 
perfect  content  which  encompassed  him  soon  disarmed  the 
suspicions  of  his  friends,  and  they  ceased  wondering. 

And  so  life  went  on,  with  unvarying  evenness,  in  the  Lam- 
berti  palace,  for  fifteen  years.  Guido’s  daughter,  at  this 
time  a woman  of  nearly  twenty-four,  was  even  more  beau- 
tiful than  her  mother  had  been.  Her  twenty-fourth  birth- 
day was  to  be  celebrated  by  once  more  throwing  the  old 
palace  open  to  the  gay,  brilliant  social  life  of  Florence. 

Elaborate  preparations  were  made  for  the  event,  and  it 
was  anticipated  with  the  most  feverish  eagerness  by  the 
invited  guests.  But,  to  their  surprise  and  horror,  the  old 
palace  was  dark  and  sombre,  on  their  arrival  there,  on  the 
night  appointed  for  the  birthday  festival.  The  servants 
refused  to  answer  any  summons  at  the  door,  until  the 
excited  people,  fearing  foul  play,  appealed  to  the  police. 
One  of  the  servants  then  presented  a slip  of  paper,  con- 
taining the  following  words,  in  the  handwriting  of  Guido 
Lamberti,  and  authenticated,  beyond  doubt,  by  the  imprint 
of  the  ancient  family  seal : 

“ I,  Guido  Lamberti,  have  closed  my  home,  and  the 
home  of  my  ancestors,  for  reasons  which  I may  never 
be  able  to  make  known.  The  doors  of  this  palace  may 
never  be  opened  again,  except  by  those  in  whose  veins 
courses  other  blood  than  mine.  Guido  Lamberti.” 

The  officer,  who  read  the  strange  note  alone,  suffered  it 
to  fall  to  the  floor  without  a comment.  Then,  signalling 
his  men  to  follow  him,  he  led  them  away  in  silence.  The 
disappointed  and  astonished  guests  departed,  likewise. 
Pity  was  the  paramount  emotion  ; no  one  thought  of 
regarding  the  act  of  Guido  Lamberti  as  an  insult.  The 
despair  manifested  in  the  note  was  so  genuine  that  all, 
with  one  accord  and  as  if  by  mutual  agreement,  accepted 
the  unknown  cause  of  Guido’s  agony  as  a common  sorrow. 

For  five  years  more,  the  old  palace  was  alone  and  silent, 


212 


AN  ETRUSCAN  PALACE. 


only  echoing  the  voices  and  footsteps  of  the  servants. 
And  then  Guido  came  back  with  another  little  girl,  a mere 
babe  of  three  years  this  time. 

^‘My  mouth  is  sealed,’'  he  said.  ‘4  cannot  yet  explain 
the  cause  of  my  last  departure  and  my  long  absence.  My 
friends  must  help  me  still  with  their  patience.  I can  only 
tell  you  that  my  beloved  daughter  is  dead,  and  that  it  is  her 
infant  daughter  whom  I have  this  time  brought  back  with 
me.  To  say  more  would  be  to  defeat  justice — justice  to 
the  dead  ! ” 

Some  maintained  their  faith  in  Guido  ; others,  less  gen- 
erous, hinted  sometimes,  and  sometimes  openly  averred, 
that  his  silence  was  the  silence  of  shame,  and  his  sorrow 
the  sorrow  of  remorse. 

Thenceforth  his  doors  were  kept  closed  except  to  a few 
intimate  friends  ; but  even  they  were  never  made  parties 
to  his  secret. 

In  the  years  which  followed  his  second  return  to  Flor- 
ence he  gave  himself  up  entirely  to  music.  The  most  of 
his  time  was  devoted  to  a little  coterie  of  pupils  whom  he 
taught  out  of  pure  love  for  his  art.  He  was  a perfect 
master  of  the  violin,  and  no  one  else  in  Italy  could  win 
such  exquisite  notes  from  the  vibrant  strings.  His  extem- 
porizations, too,  were  quite  as  wonderful  as  his  skill  in 
other  directions. 

Moved  by  some  impulse  which,  perhaps,  he  could  not 
have  explained  had  he  wished  to,  he  named  his  grand- 
daughter, Enid.  As  she  grew  out  of  childhood  into  girl- 
hood, and  thence  into  womanhood,  she  became  round  and 
perfect  with  the  same  beauty  which  had  been  her  mother’s 
and  her  grandmother’s.  At  the  close  of  Enid’s  eighteenth 
year,  among  Guido’s  pupils  was  a youth  named  Paolo  Ver- 
cini — the  most  talented  of  all  the  old  man’s  class.  Almost 
at  the  beginning  of  his  studies  he  acquired  a dexterity  of 
fingering  and  bowing,  a remarkably  light  and  magic  touch, 
which  speedily  won  for  him  a son’s  place  in  Guido’s  heart. 
And  so,  a year  later,  when  he  begged  for  the  right  to  woo 
Enid,  old  Guido  answered  him  with  unexpected  tender- 
ness. 

“Paolo,”  he  said,  “to  see  Enid  your  wife  would  be  to 
smooth  and  sweeten  my  way  to  the  grave.  If  you  can  win 
her  heart,  you  may  have  her  hand.  Only,  you  must  wait 
yet  for  a little  while  before  you  take  her  to  the  altar. 
Great  wrongs  must  be  righted  and  a great  villain  pun- 
ished. The  time  is  nearly  ripe  for  what  I hint  at.  After 


ETRUSCAN  PALACE. 


213 


that  you  may  have  her — if  you  still  want  her  when  you 
know  all.  There  is  no  stain  on  her,  yet,  for  all  that,  you 
may  wish  to  seek  some  other  woman  for  a wife  when  you 
fully  understand  what  I mean.” 

“ If  1 can  win  her,  and  you  maintain  your  willingness, 
Enid,  and  no  other,  shall  be  my  wife,”  said  Paolo.  “If 
there  is  no  stain  on  her,  so  much  the  better.  I should 
marry  her,  anyway,  if  she  did  not  think  me  too  mean  and 
humble.” 

“Then — wait,”  answered  Guido. 

Paolo  bowed  his  head,  and  the  subject  was  dropped  for 
the  time.  The  young  violinist,  however,  lost  no  time  in 
telling  Enid  that  she  possessed  his  heart,  and  he  was  over- 
joyed at  finding  that  she  already  loved  him.  With  her 
first  kiss  his  happiness  was  made  complete.  Paola's 
studies  brought  him  to  the  palace  every  day,  and  after  the 
hour  of  music  there  was,  also,  always  an  hour  of  love. 

One  day  when  Paolo  came,  he  found  old  Guido  pacing 
up  and  down  one  of  the  long  corridors  of  the  old  palace, 
with  the  wildest  excitement  in  his  eyes. 

“ My  son,”  he  exclaimed,  as  Paolo  approached,  “ the 
realization  of  your  fondest  hopes  is  at  hand.  If  she  so 
wishes,  Enid  may  be  your  bride  within  a month.  The 
day  of  my  vengeance  is  at  hand.  A week  hence  I am  to 
entertain  one  whom  the  world  delights  in  honoring  as 
Italy’s  greatest  statesman.  I know  him  in  a less  favorable 
light.  He  is  here  in  Florence  now,  and,  thanks  to  the 
cunning  of  a few  faithful  friends,  he  is  to  be  entertained 
here  a week  from  this  night,  and  without  a surmise  as  to 
whose  guest  he  will  be.  When  he  finds  out,  it  will  be  too 
late  for  him  to  retreat ! Ask  me  nothing,  at  present,  but 
do  not  leave  the  palace  again,  except  necessity  requires  it, 
until  my  distinguished  guest  has  been  fittingly  entertained.” 

The  week  sped  quickly,  and  the  night  which  Guido  so 
eagerly  wished  for,  came  as  soon  as  he  was  ready  for  it. 
To  Enid  and  Paolo,  the  passing  of  the  time  was  even 
swifter  than  it  was  to  Guido.  Late  in  the  afternoon  a fear- 
ful storm  set  in,  and  at  nightfall  the  noise  of  the  wind,  the 
thunder,  and  the  rain  was  terrific. 

“Truly  a fitting  night!”  muttered  old  Guido,  as  he 
paced  up  and  down  the  chamber,  in  which  he  intended 
receiving  his  guests. 

Eight  o’clock  was  being  struck  from  the  church  towers 
when  the  door  of  the  chamber  was  opened,  and  thirteen 
men  were  shown  into  the  room,  by  an  old  servant,  who 


214 


AN  ETR C/SCAN  PALACE, 


had  been  in  the  Lamberti  palace  since  the  days  when 
Giuseppe  brought  home  the  woman  who  became  the 
mother  of  Guido. 

One  of  Guido's  guests  uttered  an  exclamation  of  sur- 
prise, as  he  glanced  about  him,  but  the  others  evinced  no 
emotion.  Noting  the  nonchalance  and  indifference  of  his 
companions,  the  man  in  question  restrained  himself  and 
took  the  chair  assigned  to  him  in  silence.  The  chairs  were 
all  placed  at  one  end  of  the  long  chamber,  and,  like  the 
guests,  were  thirteen  in  number.  When  the  man  who  was 
at  first  so  much  disturbed,  by  the  peculiarities  of  the  room, 
recovered  from  his  surprise,  he  found  that  his  companions 
had  so  seated  themselves  that  the  middle  chair  was  left  for 
him.  Trifling  as  the  circumstance  was,  it  disturbed  him, 
and  he  took  the  vacant  chair  with  unmistakable  reluctance. 

What  strange  mummery  is  this  ? ” he  exclaimed.  ‘‘  The 
walls  draped  in  black  velvet,  the  room  illuminated  with 
the  dimmest  light  possible,  and  the  middle  chair  left  for 
me.  I ” 

‘‘The  middle  chair  is  tlie  place  of  honor.  Count,'’  ex- 
plained the  man  at  his  right  hand,  “and  this  old  musician- 
juggler  reserved  it  for  you,  since  the  entertainment  to 
which  he  has  invited  us  is  given  expressly  for  your  diver- 
tisement.  The  velvet  hangings,  and  the  dim  light  are  a 
part  of  his  modus  operandi.” 

The  Count  smiled  and  made  a powerful  effort  to  conceal 
his  discomfort.  His  companions  exchanged  glances,  and 
two  or  three  of  them  gravely  nodded  their  heads.  Before 
anything  further  could  be  said,  old  Guido,  dressed  in 
rustling,  flowing  Oriental  robes,  came  in.  His  strange 
garb,  and  the  great  length  of  his  white  hair  and  beard, 
made  him  seem  at  least  a hundred  years  old. 

Closing  the  door,  he  bowed  very  low  to  his  guests,  and 
then  advanced  to  the  other  end  of  the  room.  Those  nearest 
to  the  Count  observed  that  he  was  watching  Guido  with  a 
wild  and  unnatural  earnestness,  and  that  every  portion  of 
his  flesh  seemed  to  be  quivering  with  terror. 

Guido  paused  beside  a table  upon  which  lay  a violin  and 
bow.  Picking  them  up,  he  took  a few  steps  forward,  and 
then  pausing,  bowed  again. 

“Gentlemen,”  he  began,  “ I thank  you  most  earnestly 
for  doing  me  this  honor.  I have  invited  you  here  to  show 
you  how  mysterious  an  agency  music  is,  and  how  little  the 
supernal  attributes  of  it  are  understood.  If  you  are  in 
sympathy  with  my  purpose,  and  will  maintain  not  only 


AN  ETRUSCAN  PALACE. 


215 


that  sympathy,  but  the  utmost  silence,  I will  endeavor  to 
demonstrate  to  you  some  of  the  seemingly  wonderful  phe- 
nomena of  this  most  subtle  essence  of  the  universe.” 

A moment  later  he  began  playing.  After  a few  prelusive 
notes,  he  filled  the  room  with  a melody  so  soft  and  so  fan- 
tastic that  the  senses  of  all  of  Guido’s  guests  seemed 
enchained.  Then  he  led  them  into  descriptive  music, 
which  explained  itself,  and  its  story,  as  clearly  as  if  the 
succession  of  marvellous  themes  had  been  accompanied 
by  words.  Night,  day,  storms,  battles,  sorrow,  joy,  peace, 
woe,  everything  in  life  and  in  nature,  was  delineated  by 
the  perfect  strokes  of  that  master  bow.  This  ended  with 
a soft,  tremulous,  sobbing  little  melody,  whose  last  note 
was  a sigh.  As  it  became  more  and  more  subdued,  the 
light  began  burning  lower  and  lower.  When  it  ceased,  the 
last  faint,  flickering  gleam  of  light  went  with  it. 

With  the  darkness,  followed  a brief  silence,  which  was 
only  broken  by  the  sound  of  the  storm  outside,  which  the 
thick  walls  of  the  palace  did  not  wholly  exclude.  After  a 
few  moments,  the  music,  now  weird,  menacing,  and  wrath- 
ful, recommenced.  It  seemed  to  fill  not  only  the  whole 
room,  but  the  whole  palace.  It  was  in  the  air  above  them  ; 
it  was  in  the  floor  under  their  feet  ; it  was  before  them, 
behind  them,  in  their  midst  ; it  echoed  and  reverberated 
throughout  all  the  corridors  and  chambers  of  the  palace. 
All  of  Guido’s  guests  were  awed  and  surprised,  but  the 
Count’s  teeth  were  chattering. 

Stronger  and  louder  became  the  music,  until  after  a tre- 
mendous outburst  of  passionate  exultation,  it  relapsed  into 
a subdued  and  quivering  wail.  Then  there  was  a faint  sput- 
tering sound  at  the  point  where  Guido  was  standing  when 
the  light  went  out.  Following  this  sound,  a pale  blue 
phosphorescent  glow  manifested  itself  at  the  same  point. 
Gradually  this  light  became  brighter,  until  in  its  midst 
Guido  once  more  became  apparent  to  his  guests.  An  im- 
mense cauldron  seemed  standing  at  his  feet,  and  from  it 
emanated  the  blue  light,  and  soft  undulating  clouds  of  va- 
por, which  wreathed  and  curled  about  him  with  the  aw- 
ful sinuosity  of  evil  spirits,  or  serpents.  In  his  right  hand 
was  a naked  sword,  which  he  was  slowly  waving  to  and 
fro  through  the  vapor. 

The  music  still  continued,  but  from  whence  it  came  not 
one  of  Guido’s  guests  could  tell.  It  seemed  everywhere  ; 
now  filling  the  whole  palace  and  now  sweeping  up  and 
down  the  room,  or  up  and  down  the  palace,  as  if  all  the 


2i6 


AJV  E7^I?USCAN  PALACE, 


spirits  of  melody  and  sound  were  united  in  one  general 
sportive  chase. 

The  blue  light  grew  brighter,  filling  the  whole  room 
with  its  sinister  glare — only  to  go  out  altogether  when  its 
intensity  was  blinding,  leaving  the  room  once  more  in 
inky  darkness.  But  only  for  a moment.  The  menacing 
music  ended  with  the  light,  and  was  almost  instantly  suc- 
ceeded by  a dirge,  at  whose  inceptive  note  the  cauldron  rut 
Guido’s  feet  sent  out  a dull  red  blaze,  making  the  sombre 
black  hangings  of  the  chamber  glisten  like  the  dark  and 
frightful  walls  of  a charnel  house. 

Still  old  Guido  stood  behind  the  cauldron,  weaving  his 
gleaming  sword.  Suddenly  he  changed  his  regular  move- 
ments into  sharp  incisive  sweeps,  each  making  a sullen 
swish,  wdiich  sounded  like  a viper  s hiss.  And,  also,  with 
each  downward  movement  of  the  sword  the  color  of  the 
fire  in  the  cauldron  changed.  The  effect  was  so  terrible 
that  Guido’s  other  guests  wxre  moved  and  startled  nearly 
as  much  as  the  Count. 

When  crimson  flames  came  from  the  cauldron  there 
was  no  further  change  in  the  colors.  Guido  then  stepped 
to  the  right,  and  resting  the  point  of  the  sword  on  the 
floor,  crossed  his  arms  over  the  hilt  and  bowed  his  head. 

The  music  had  changed  with  each  color,  and  with  the 
final  transition  into  crimson  the  weird  melody  merged  into 
a mournful,  stormy  fugue.  When  this  had  continued  for 
a few  seconds  Guido  suddenly  raised  his  right  hand. 

“ Behold  ! ” he  exclaimed,  and  directly  over  the  caul- 
dron a landscape  appeared.  It  was  an  opening  in  an  old 
and  beautiful  forest.  In  the  foreground,  an  old  man  Avas 
walking  with  a young  and  beautiful  woman.  They  w^ere 
smiling  and  happy.  Suddenly  three  men  sprang  out  of 
the  undergrowth,  and  one  of  them  stabbed  the  old  man. 
He  fell  dead  and  the  three  bore  the  woman  aw^ay.  Then 
the  scene  changed  from  the  green  forest  to  a salon.  The 
murderer  w^as  there,  and  so  was  the  abducted  woman.  She 
w^as  in  deep  agony  and  he  was  laughing  her  misery  into 
scorn.  Snatching  a dagger  up  from  a table  she  buried  it 
in  her  bosom.  As  this  scene  faded  the  Count  sprang  to 
his  feet. 

‘‘Go  no  further!”  he  cried.  “I  confess  all.  Guido 
Lamberti,  kill  me  if  you  will,  but  show^  me  no  more  of  my 
shameful  crimes ! ” 

“ Sit  down  1 ” commanded  Guido,  and  he  was  obeyed  in- 
stantly. 


AN  ETRUSCAN  PALACE. 


217 


The  music  ceased,  but  the  crimson  glare  continued. 
Guido’s  sword  fell  to  the  floor  with  a clang. 

“Listen!”  he  said.  “I  have  just  shown  you  how  my 
father  and  my  wife  died.  By  whose  agency  I need  not 
say,  that  being  already  self-confessed.  The  same  man,  not 
yet  satisfied,  pursued  me  still  further  with  his  hatred, 
which  was  the  outgrowth  of  my  being  his  successful  rival 
in  love.  On  the  morning  of  my  daughter’s  twenty-fourth 
birthday  his  hatred  and  malice  compelled  us  to  leave  Flor- 
ence. She  afterward  married,  but  eventually  died  because 
of  the  wrong  this  man  did  us.  I might  say  more,  but  I 
think  that  what  I have  already  told  you  will  suffice.  He 
has  escaped  my  private  vengeance  many  times,  and  my 
horror  of  tiie  courts  hindered  my  punishing  him  there. 
Now,  I ask  you  if  he  is  not  worthy  of  death.” 

But  one  word  came  through  the  pale,  cold  lips  of  those 
twelve  grave  men.  That  word  was  : 

“ Yes  ! ” 

The  just  verdict  came  too  late,  for  vengeance  had  come 
to  the  condemned  man  from  a higher  place.  The  evil 
genius  of  the  house  of  Lamberti  sat  dead  in  his  chair. 

“ Thank  God  ! ” cried  Guido,  and  his  weary,  tortured 
life  went  out  with  that  wild  shout  of  exultation.  Enid  and 
Paolo  rushed  in,  but  they  were  too  late. 

“You  still  have  me,  dear,”  he  whispered. 

Smiling  through  her  tears,  she  kissed  him. 


[the  end.] 


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AUTHORS’  CATALOGUE. 

\When  ordering  by  mail  please  order  by  number sJ] 


Works  by  the  author  of  **Addie’s 
Husband.” 

388  Addie’s  Husband ; or.  Through 


Clouds  to  Sunshine * 

504  My  Poor  Wife * 

1046  Jessie -. ..  20 

Works  by  the  author  of  ‘‘A  Fatal 
Dower.” 

246  A Fatal  Dower 20 

372  Phyllis’  Probation * 

461  His  Wedded  Wife 20 

829  The  Actor’s  Ward 20 

1373  The  Story  of  an  Error 20 

Works  by  the  author  of  ” A Great 
Mistake.” 

244  A Great  Mistake . . 20 

588  Cherry * 

1040  Clarissa’s  Ordeal.  1st  half...  20 

1040  Clarissa’s  Ordeal.  2d  half 20 

1137  Prince  Charming ^ 

1187  Suzanne 20 


By  the  Author  of  ‘^A  Golden 
Bar.” 

483  Betwixt  My  Love  and  Me * 

By  the  Author  of  “By  Crooked 
Paths.” 

430  A Bitter  Reckoning * 

By  the  Author  of  “ Quadroona.” 


1356  Plot  and  Counterplot 20 

By  Mrs.  Leith  Adams. 

1345  Aunt  Hepsy’s  Foundling 20 

By  Hamilton  Aide. 

383  Introduced  to  Society * 


Gustave  Aimard’s  Works. 


1341  The  Trappers  of  Arkansas * 

1396  The  Adventurers * 

1398  Pirates  of  the  Prairies * 

1400  Queen  of  the  Savannah * 

1401  The  Buccaneer  Chief * 

1402  The  Smuggler  Hero * 

1404  The  Rebel  Chief * 

By  Mary  Albert. 

933  A Hidden  Terror 20 

Grant  Allen’s  Works. 

712  For  Maimie’s  Sake 20 

1221  “ The  Tents  of  Shem  ” 20 

Works  by  the  author  of  “A 
Woman’s  Love-Story.” 

322  A Woman’s  Love-Story * 

677  Griselda 20 

Mrs.  Alexander’s  Works. 

5 The  Admiral’s  Ward 20 

17  The  Wooing  O’t 20 

62  The  Executor 20 

189  Valerie’s  Fate * 

229  Maid,  Wife,  or  Widow?....  * 

236  Which  Shall  it  Be? 20 

339  Mrs.  Vereker’s  Courier  Maid..  * 

490  A Second  Life 20 

564  At  Bay [ * 

794  Beaton’s  Bargain 20 

797  Look  Before  You  Leap 20 

805  The  Freres.  1st  half 20 

805  The  Freres.  2d  half 20 

806  Her  Dearest  Foe.  1st  half....  20 

806  Her  Dearest  Foe.  2d  half 20 

814  The  Heritage  of  Langdale 20 

815  Ralph  Wilton’s  Weird * 

900  By  Woman’s  Wit ‘>0 


2 


THE  SEASIDE  LIBRARY— Pocket  Edition. 


997  Forging  the  Fetters,  and  The 


Australian  Aunt 20 

1054  Mona’s  Choice 20 

1057  A Life  Interest 20 

1189  A Crooked  Path 20 

1199  A False  Scent * 

1367  Heart  Wins * 

1459  A Woman’s  Heart 20 

1571  Blind  Fate 20 

Alison’s  Works. 

194  “ So  Near,  and  Yet  So  Far . * 

278  For  Life  and  Love * 

481  The  House  That  Jack  Built. . . * 

By  Hans  Christian  Andersen. 

1314  Andersen’s  Fairy  Tales 20 

By  W.  P.  Andrews. 

1172  India  and  Her  Neighbors 20 

F.  Aiistey’s  Works. 

59  Vice  Versa 20 

225  The  Giant’s  Robe 20 

503  The  Tinted  Venus.  A Farcical 

Romance * 

819  A Fallen  Idol 20 

By  Annie  Armitt. 

759  In  Shallow  Waters 20 

By  G.  W.  Appleton. 

1346  A Terrible  Legacy 20 

By  T.  S.  Arthur. 

1337  Woman’s  Trials 20 


R.  M.  Ballantyne’s  Works. 

89  The  Red  Eric * 

95  The  Fire  Brigade * 

96  Erling  the  Bold * 

772  Gascoyne,  the  Sandal-Wood 

Trader 20 

Honore  De  Balzac’s  Works. 

776  P^reGoriot 20 

1128  Cousin  Pons 20 

1318  The  Vendetta 20 

8.  Bariner-Goiild’s  Works, 

787  Court  Royal 20 

878  Little  Tu’penny * 

1122  Eve 20 

1201  Mehalah:  A Story  of  the  Salt 

Marshes 20 

Frank  Barrett’s  Works. 

986  The  Great  ITesper  20 

1138  Recoiling  Vengeance 20 

1245  Fettered  for  lafe 20 

1611  Between  Life  and  Death. ......  20 

Basil’s  Works, 

344  “ The  Wearing  of  the  Green  ’,  20 

547  A Coquette's  Conquest 20 

585  A Drawn  Game 20 

Anne  Beale’s  Works. 

188  Idonea 20 

199  The  Fisher  Village * 


By  W.  Bergrsol. 

1445  Pillone 20 

Walter  Besant’s  Works. 

97  All  in  a Garden  Fair 20 

137  Uncle  Jack * 

140  A Glorious  Fortune * 

146  Love  Finds  the  Way, and  Other 
Stories.  By  Besant  and  Rice  * 

230  Dorothy  Forster 20 

324  In  Luck  at  Last * 

541  Uncle  Jack * 

651  “ Self  or  Bearer  ” * 

882  Children  of  Gibeon 20 

904  The  Holy  Rose * 

906  The  World  Went  Very  Well 

Then 20 

980  To  Call  Her  Mine 20 

1055  Katharine  Regina 20 

1065  Herr  Paulus:  His  Rise,  His 

Greatness,  and  His  Fall 20 

1143  The  Inner  House 20 

1151  For  Faith  and  Freedom 20 

1240  'I'he  Bell  of  St.  Paul’s 20 

1247  The  Lament  of  Dives 20 

1378  They  Were  Married.  By  Wal- 
ter Besant  and  James  Rice. . . * 

1413  Armorel  of  Lyonesse 20 

1462  Let  Nothing  You  Dismay * 


M.  Betham-Ed wards’s  Works, 
273  Love  and  Mirage;  or, The  Wait- 
ing on  an  Island ^ 

579  The  Flower  of  Doom, and  Other 


Stories * 

594  Doctor  Jacob  20 

1023  Next  of  Kin— Wanted 20 

1407  The  Parting  of  the  Ways 20 

1543  For  One  and  the  World 20 


Bjornstjerne  Bjoriisoii’s  Works. 

1385  Arne * 

1388  The  Happy  Boy * 


William  Black’s  Works. 

1 Yolande 20 

18  Shandon  Bells 20 

21  Sunrise  : A Story  of  These 

Times 20 

23  A Princess  of  Thule 20 

39  In  Silk  Attire 20 

44  Macleod  of  Dare 20 

49  That  Beautiful  Wretch 20 

50  The  Strange  Adventures  of  a 

Phaeton 20 

70  White  Wings:  A Yachting  Ro- 
mance  * 

78  Madcap  Violet 20 

81  A Daughter  of  Heth 20 

124  Tliree  Featliers 20 

125  The  Monarch  of  Mincing  Lane  20 

126  Kilmenv 20 

13*^  Green  Pastures  and  Piccadilly  20 


265  .luditli  Shakespeare  : Her  Love 
Affaii-s  and  Other  Adventures  20 
472  The  Wise  Women  of  Inverness  * 

627  White  Heather 20 

898  Romeo  and  Juliet:  A Tale  of 
Two  Young  Fools 20 


THE  SEASIDE  LIBRARY— Pocket  Edition. 


8 


962  Sabina  Zembrat.  1st  half 20 

962  Sabina  Zembra.  2d  half 20 

1096  The  Strange  Adventures  of  a 

House-Boat 20 

1132  In  Far  Lochaber 20 

1227  The  Penance  of  John  Logan. . 20 
1259  Nanciebel : A Tale  of  Stratford- 

on-Avon 20 

1268  Prince  Fortunatus 20 

1389  Oliver  Goldsmith * 


1394  The  Four  Macnicols,  and  Other 

Tales 

1426  An  Adventure  iu  Thule 


R.  D.  Blackinore’s  Works* 

67  Lorna  Doone.  1st  half 20 

67  Lorna  Doone.  2d  half 20 

427  The  Remarkable  History  of  Sir 
Thomas  Upmore,  Bart.,  M.  P.  20 

615  Mary  Anerley 20 

625  Erema ; or,  My  Father’s  Sin . . 20 

629  Cripps,  the  Carrier 20 

630  Cradock  Nowell.  1st  half 20 

630  Cradock  Nowell.  2d  half 20 

631  Christowell.  A Dartmoor  Tale  20 

632  Clara  Vaughan 20 

633  The  Maid  of  Sker.  1st  half . . . 20 
633  The  Maid  of  Sker.  2d  half. ...  20 

636  Alice  Lorraine.  1st  half 20 

636  Alice  Lorraine.  2d  half.  20 

926  Springhaven.  1st  half 20 

926  Springhaven.  2d  half 20 

1267  Kit  and  Kitty.  1st  half 20 

1267  Kit  and  Kitty.  2d  half 20 


By  Isa  Blagdeu. 

705  The  Woman  I Loved,  and  the 
Woman  Who  Loved  Me 

By  C.  Blatlierwick. 

151  The  Ducie  Diamonds * 


By  Frederick  Boyle* 

356  The  Good  Hater 20 

Miss  Mo  E.  Braddon’s  Works* 

35  Lady  Audley’s  Secret 20 

56  Phantom  Fortune 20 

74  Aurora  Floyd .' 20 

110  Under  the  Red  Flag * 

153  The  Golden  Calf 20 

204  Vixen 20 

211  The  Octoroon * 

234  Barbara ; or.  Splendid  Misery.  20 

263  An  Ishmaelite 20 

315  The  Mistletoe  Bough.  Christ- 
mas, 1884.  Edited  by  Miss  M. 

E.  Brad  don 20 

434  Wyllard’s  Weird 20 

478  Diavola;  or,  Nobody’s  Daugh- 
ter. Part  1 20 

478  Diavola ; or.  Nobody’s  Daugh- 
ter. Part  H 20 

480  Married  in  Haste.  Edited  by 
Miss  M.  E.  Braddon 20 

487  Put  to  the  Test.  Edited  by  Miss 

M.  E.  Braddon 20 

488  .Toshua  Haggard’s  Daughter...  20 

489  Rupert  Godwin 20 


495  Mount  Royal 20 

496  Only  a Woman.  Edited  by  Miss 

M.  E.  Braddon 

497  The  Lady’s  Mile 

498  Only  a Clod 

499  The  Cloven  Foot 

511  A Strange  World 

515  Sir  Jasper’s  Tenant 

524  Strangers  and  Pilgrims 

529  The  Doctor’s  Wife 

542  Fenton’s  Quest 

544  Cut  by  the  County;  or,  Grace 

Darnel 

548  A Fatal  Marriage,  and  The 

Shadow  in  the  Corner 

549  Dudley  Carleon ; or.  The  Broth- 

er’s Secret,  and  George  Caul- 
field’s Journey 

552  Hostages  to  Fortune 

553  Birds  of  Prey 

554  Charlotte’s  Inheritance.  (Se- 

quel to  “ Birds  of  Prey  ”) 

557  To  the  Bitter  End 

559  Taken  at  the  Flood 

560  Asphodel 

561  Just  as  I am ; or,  A Living  Lie 

567  Dead  Men’s  Shoes 

570  John  Marchmont’s  Legacy 

618  The  Mistletoe  Bough.  Christ- 
mas, 1885.  Edited  by  Miss  M. 

E.  Braddon 

840  One  Thing  Needful;  or.  The 

Penalty  of  Fate 

881  Mohawks.  1st  half 

881  Mohawks.  2d  half 

890  The  Mistletoe  Bough.  Christ- 
mas, 1886.  Edited  by  Miss  M. 

E.  Braddon 

943  Weavers  and  Weft;  or,  “ Love 

that  Hath  Us  in  ^^s  Net  ” 

947  Publicans  and  Sinners;  or, 

Lucius  Davoren.  1st  half 

947  Publicans  and  Sinners;  or, 

Lucius  Davoren.  2d  half 

1036  Like  and  Unlike 

1098  The  Fatal  Three 


1211  The  Day  Will  Come 20 

1411  Whose  Was  the  Hand? 20 

By  Annie  Bradshaw* 

706  A Crimson  Stain * 

Works  by  Charlotte  M.  Braeme, 
Author  of  “ Bora  Thorne*” 

19  Her  Mother’s  Sin 20 

51  Dora  Thorne 20 

54  A Broken  Wedding-Ring 20 

68  A Queen  Amongst  Women * 

69  Madolin’s  Lover  20 

73  Redeemed  by  Love;  or,  Love’s 

Victory •. 20 

76  Wife  in  Name  Only;  or,  A 

Broken  Heart 20 

79  Wedded  and  Parted * 

92  Lord  Lynne’s  Choice 20 

148  Thorns  and  Orange-Blossoms.  20 

190  Romance  of  a Black  Veil * 

220  Which  Loved  Him  Best?. 20 


ggg  8 g g 88S  8 ggggggg  88*  * * 8S888gBgg 


4 


THE  SEASIDE  LIBRARY—Pocket  Edition. 


237  Repented  at  Leisure.  (Large 

type  edition) 20 

967  Repented  at  Leisure * 

249  “ Prince  Charlie’s  Daughter;*’ 

or.  The  Cost  of  Her  Love 20 

250  Sunshine  and  Roses;  or,  Di- 

ana’s Discipline 20 

254  The  Wife’s  Secret,  and  Fair 

but  False * 

283  Tlie  Sin  of  a Lifetime ; or,  Viv- 
ien’s Atonement 20 

287  At  War  With  Herself * 

923  At  War  With  Herself.  (Large 
type  edition) 20 


288  From  Gloom  to  Sunlight;  or. 

From  Out  the  Gloom 

955  From  Gloom  to  Sunlight;  or, 


From  Out  the  Gloom.  (Large 
type  edition) 20 

291  Love’s  Warfare 20 

292  A Golden  Heart 20 

293  The  Shadow  of  a Sin * 

948  The  Shadow  of  a Sin.  (Large 

type  edition) 20 


294  The  False  Vow;  or,  Hilda;  or, 

Lady  Hutton’s  Ward * 

928  Tlie  False  Vow;  or,  Hilda;  or. 
Lady  Hutton’s  Ward.  (Large 

type  edition) 20 

294  Lady  Hutton’sWard;  or,  Hilda; 

or.  The  False  Vow * 

928  Lady  Hutton’s  Ward ; or,  Hilda; 
or.  The  False  Vow.  (Large 
type  edition") 20 

294  Hilda;  or,  The  False  Vow;  or. 

Lady  Hutton’s  Wayd * 

928  Hilda;  or.  The  False  Vow;  or, 
Lady  Hutton’s  Ward.  (Large 
type  edition) 20 

295  A Woman’s  War.: * 

952  A Woman’s  War.  (Large  type 

edition) 20 

296  A Rose  in  Thorns 20 

297  Hilary’s  Folly;  cr.  Her  Mar- 

riage Vow * 

953  Hilary’s  Folly;  or,  Her  Mar- 

riage Vow.  (Large  type  edi- 
tion)  20 

299  The  Fatal  Lilies,  and  A Bride 

from  the  Sea * 

300  A Gilded  Sin,  and  A Bridge  of 

Love * 

303  Ingledew  House,  and  More  Bit- 

ter than  Death * 

304  In  Cupid’s  Net * 

305  A Dead  Heart,  and  Lady  Gwen- 

doline’s Dream * 

306  A Golden  Dawn,  and  Love  for 

a Day * 

307  Two  Kisses,  and  Like  no  Other 


Love * 

308  Beyond  Pardon 20 

322  A Woman’s  Love-Story 20 

.323  A Willful  Maid 20 

411  A Bitter  Atonement 20 

433  My  Sister  Kate * 

459  A Woman’s  Temptation. 

(Large  type  edition) 20 

951  A Woman’s  Temptation ♦ 


460  Under  a Shadow 

465  The  Earl’s  Atonement 

466  Between  Two  Loves 

467  A Struggle  for  a Ring 

469  Lady  Darner’s  Secret 

470  Evelyn’s  Folly 

471  Thrown  on  the  World 

476  Between  Two  Sins;  or,  Married 

in  Haste 

516  Put  Asunder ; or.  Lady  Castle- 

maine’s  Divorce 

576  Her  Martyrdom 

626  A Fair  Mystery;  or,  The  Perils 

of  Beauty 

741  The  Heiress  of  Hilldrop;  or. 
The  Romance  of  a Young  Girl 
745  For  Another’s  Sin ; or,  A Strug- 
gle for  Love 

792  Set  in  Diamonds 

821  The  World  Between  Them 

822  A Passion  Flower 

853  A True  Magdalen 

854  A Woman’s  Error 

922  Marjorie 

924  ’Twixt  Smile  and  Tear 

927  Sweet  Cymbeline.^ 

929  The  Belle  of  Lynn;  or.  The 

Miller’s  Daughter 

931  Lady  Diana’s  Pride 

949  Claribel’s  Love  Story;  or, Love’s 

Hidden  Depths 

958  A Haunted  Life ; or.  Her  Terri- 
ble Sin 

969  The  Mystery  of  Colde  Fell;  or, 

Not  Proven 

973  The  Squire’s  Darling 

975  A Dark  Marriage  Morn 

978  Her  Second  Love 

982  The  Duke’s  Secret 

985  On  Her  Wedding  Morn,  and 
The  Mystery  of  the  Holly-Tree 
988  The  Shattered  Idol,  and  Letty 

Leigh 

990  The  Earl’s  Error,  and  Arnold’s 

Promise 

995  An  Unnatural  Bondage,  and 

That  Beautiful  Lady 

1006  His  Wife’s  Judgment 

1008  A Thorn  in  Her  Heart 

1010  Golden  Gates 

1012  A Nameless  Sin 

1014  A Mad  Love 

1031  Irene’s  Vow 

1052  Signa’s  Sweetheart 

1091  A Modern  Cinderella 

1134  Lord  Elesmere’s  Wife 

1155  Lured  Away;  or.  The  Story  of 
a Wedding  - Ring,  and  The 

Heiress  of  Arne 

1179  Beauty’s  Marriage 

1185  A Fiery  Ordeal 

1195  Dumaresq’s  Temptation 

1285  Jenny 

1291  The  Star  of  Love 

1328  Lord  Lisle’s  Daughter 

1415  Weaker  than  a Woman 

By  Fredrika  Bremer. 

187  The  Midnight  Sun * 


THE  SEASIDE  LIBRARY— Pocket  EditIok. 


5 


Charlotte  Bronte’s  Works. 


15  Jane  Eyre 20 

57  Shirley 20 

944  The  Professor 20 

Rhoda  Broughton’s  Works. 

86  Belinda 20 

101  Second  Thoughts 20 

227  Nancy 20 

645  Mrs.  Smith  of  Longmains * 

758  “ Good-bye,  Sweetheart!” 20 

765  Not  Wisely,  But  Too  Well 20 

767  Joan 20 

768  Red  as  a Rose  is  She 20 

769  Cometh  Up  as  a Flower 20 

862  Betty’s  Visions * 

894  Doctor  Cupid 20 

1599  Alas! 20 

Robert  Buchanan’s  Works. 

145  “ Storm-Beaten God  and  The 

Man 20 

154  Annan  Water 20 

181  The  New  Abelard * 

398  Matt : A Tale  of  a Caravan ...  * 

646  The  Master  of  the  Mine 20 

892  That  Winter  Night;  or.  Love’s 

Victory * 

1074  Stormy  Waters 20 

1104  The  Heir  of  Linne 20 

1350  Love  Me  Forever. * 

1455  The  Moment  After 20 

Captain  Fred  Burnaby’s  Works. 

375  A Ride  to  Khiva 20 

384  On  Horseback  Through  Asia 
Minor 20 


By  John  Bloundelle-Burton. 


913  The  Silent  Shore ; or,  The  Mys- 
tery of  St.  James’  Park 20 

By  Beatrice  M.  Butt. 

1354  Delicia 20 

E.  Liasseter  Bynner’s  Works. 

1456  Nimport 30 

1460  Tritons 30 


Mrs.  H.  Lovett  Cameron’s  Works. 

595  A North  Country  Maid 

796  In  a Grass  Country 

891  Vera  Nevill;  or.  Poor  Wisdom’s 

Chance 

912  Pure  Gold . . 

963  Worth  Winning 

1025  Daisy’s  Dilemma 

1028  A Devout  Lover ; or,  A Wasted 

Love 

1070  A Life’s  Mistake 

1204  The  Lodge  by  the  Sea 

1205  A Lost  Wife 

1236  Her  Father’s  Daughter 

1261  Wild  George’s  Daughter 

1290  The  Cost  of  a Lie 

1292  Bosky  Dell 

By  Lady  Colin  Campbell. 

1325  Darell  Blake 

Rosa  Nonchette  Carey’s  Work 

215  Not  Like  Other  Girls 

396  Robert  Ord’s  Atonement 

551  Barbara  Heathcote’s  Trial.  1st 

half 

551  Barbara  Heathcote’s  Trial.  2d 

half 

608  For  Lilias.  1st  half 

608  For  Lilias.  2d  half 

930  Uncle  Max.  1st  half 

930  Uncle  Max.  2d  half 

932  Queenie’s  Whim.  1st  half 

932  Queenie’s  Whim.  2d  half 

934  Wooed  and  Married.  1st  half. 

934  Wooed  and  Married.  2d  half. 

936  Nellie’s  Memories.  1st  half. . . 

936  Nellie’s  Memories.  2d  half. . . 

961  Wee  Wifie 

1033  Esther:  A Story  for  Girls 

1064  Only  the  Governess 

1135  Aunt  Diana 

1194  The  Search  for  Basil  Lyndhurst 

1208  Merle’s  Crusade 

1545  Lover  or  Friend? 

By  Alice  Comyns  Carr. 

571  Paul  Crew’s  Story * 


By  Lord  Byron. 

719  Childe  Harold’s  Pilgrimage. . . * 
E.  Fairfax  Byrrne’s  Works. 


521  Entangled 20 

538  A Fair  Country  Maid 20 

By  Mrs.  Caddy. 

127  Adrian  Bright 20 

Hall  Caine’s  Works. 

445  The  Shadow  of  a Crime 20 

520  She’s  All  the  World  to  Me * 

1234  The  Deemster 20 

1255  The  Bondman ^ 

By  Ada  Cambridge. 

1583  A Marked  Man 20 


Lewis  Carroll’s  Works. 

462  Alice’s  Adventures  in  Wonder- 
land. Illustrated  by  John 

Tenniel 20 

789  Through  the  Looking-Glass, 
and  What  Alice  Found  There. 
Illustrated  by  John  Tenniel. . 20 

By  John  Coleman. 

504  Curly:  An  Actor’s  Story.  * 

By  C.  R.  Coleridge. 

403  An  English  Squire 20 

By  Erckmann-Chatrian. 

329  The  Polish  Jew.  (Translated 
from  the  French  by  Caroline 
A.  Merighi.) ♦ 


6 


THE  SEASIDE  LlBRAkY— Pocket  Edition. 


J.  Maclaren  Cobban^ s Works# 


485  Tinted  Vapours * 

1279  Master  of  His  Fate  20 

1511  A Reverend  Gentleman 20 

By  Beatrice  Collensie. 

1352  A Double  Blarriage 20 

Wilkie  Collins’s  Works. 

52  The  New  Magdalen * 

102  The  Moonstone 20 

167  Heart  and  Science 20 


168  No  Thoroughfare.  By  Dickens 

and  Collins 

175  Love’s  Random  Shot,  and 

Other  Stories 

233  “ I Say  No or,  The  Love-Let- 


ter Answered. . 20 

508  The  Girl  at  the  Gate * 

591  The  Queen  of  Hearts 20 


613  The  Ghost’s  Touch,  and  Perc3^ 

and  the  Prophet * 

623  Mj’^  Lady’s  Money * 

701  Tlie  Woman  in  White.  1st  half  20 
701  The  Woman  in  White.  2d  half  20 


702  Man  and  Wife.  1st  half. 20 

702  Man  and  Wife.  2d  half 20 

764  The  Evil  Genius 20 

896  The  Guilty  River 20 

‘ 946  The  Dead  Secret 20 

977  The  Haunted  Hotel 20 

1029  Armadale.  1st  half 20 

1029  Armadale.  2d  half 20 

1095  The  Legacy  of  Cain 20 

1119  No  Name.  1st  half 20 

1119  No  Name.  2d  half 20 

1269  Blind  Love 20 

1347  A Rogue’s  Life 20 


Mabel  Collins’s  Works. 

749  Lord  Vanecourt’s  Daughter. . . 20 
828  The  PrettiestW Oman  in  Warsaw  20 

M.  J.  Colaiilioun’s  Works. 

624  Primus  in  Indis * 

1469  Every  Inch  a Soldier 20 

Hugh  Conway’s  Works. 

240  Called  Back * 

251  The  Daughter  of  the  Stars,  and 
Other  Tales * 

301  Dark  Days * 

302  The  Blatchford  Bequest * 

341  A Dead  Man’s  Face * 

502  Carriston’s  Gift * 

525  Paul  Vargas,  and  Other  Stories  * 


543  A Family  Affair 20 

601  Slings  and  Arrows,  and  Other 

Stories * 

711  A Cardinal  Sin 20 

804  Living  or  Dead 20 

830  Bound  by  a Spell 20 

1353  All  In  One 20 

J»  Fenimore  Cooper’s  Works. 

60  The  Last  of  the  Mohicans 20 

63  The  Spy 20 

309  The  Pathfinder 20 


310  The  Prairie 

,318  The  Pioneers;  or.  The  Sources 

of  the  Susquehanna 

349  Thd  Two  Admirals 

359  The  Water-Witch 

361  The  Red  Rover ... 

373  Wing  and  Wing 

378  Homeward  Bound;  or.  The 

Chase 

379  Home  as  Found.  (Sequel  to 

“Homeward  Bound”) 

380  Wyandotte;  or,  The  Hutted 

Knoll 

385  The  Headsman;  or,  The  Ab- 

baye  des  Vignerons  

394  The  Bravo 

397  Lionel  Lincoln;  or.  The  Leag- 
uer of  Boston 

400  The  Wept  of  Wish-Ton-Wish. . 

413  Afloat  and  Ashore 

414  Miles  Wallingford.  (Sequel  to 

“ Afloat  and  Ashore  ”) 

415  The  Ways  of  the  Hour 

416  Jack  3’ier ; or,  The  Florida  Reef 

419  The  Chainbearer;  or.  The  Lit- 

tle-page Manuscripts 

420  Satanstoe ; or.  The  Littlepage 

Manuscripts 

421  The  Redskins ; or,  Indian  and 

Injin.  Being  the  conclusion 
of  the  Littlepage  Manuscripts 

422  Precaution 

423  The  Sea  Lions;  or.  The  Lost 

Sealers  

424  Mercedes  of  Castile;  or.  The 

Voyage  to  Cathay 

425  The  Oak-Openings;  or.  The 

Bee-Hunter 

431  The  Monikins 

1062  The  Deerslayer ; or.  The  First 

War-Path.  1st  half 

1062  The  Deerslayer;  or,  The  First 

War-Path.  2d  half 

1170  The  Pilot 


20 

20 


Marie  Corelli’s  Works. 

1068  Vendetta ! or.  The  Story  of  One 

Forgotten 

1131  Thelma.  1st  half 

1131  Thelma.  2d  half 

1329  My  Wonderful  Wife! 

By  Madame  Cottin. 

1366  Elizabeth 


Georgiana  M.  Craik’s  Woi 

450  Godfrey  Helstone 

606  Mrs.  Hollyer 

B.  M.  Croker’s  Works, 

207  Pretty  Miss  Neville . . 

260  Proper  Pride 

412  Some  One  Else 

1124  Diana  Barrington 

1607  Two  Masters 


gg  ' , ,ggg  gg  g gg  g g gg  g g ggg  ggg  gg  B § S 8ggg 


THE  SEASIDE  LIBRARY— Pocket  Edition. 


7 


May  Crommelin’s  Works. 

452  In  the  West  Countrie 20 

619  Joy;  or.  The  Light  of  Cold- 

Home  Ford 20 

647  Goblin  Gold * 

1327  Midge 20 

1399  Violet  Vyvian,  M.F.H 20 

By  Stuart  C.  Cumberland. 

641  The  Rabbi’s  Spell * 

By  K.  H.  Dana,  Jr. 

311  Two  Years  Before  the  Mast 20 

By  Frank  Danby. 

1379  The  Copper  Crash 20 

By  Joyce  Darrell. 

163  Winifred  Power 20 

Alphonse  Daudet’s  Works. 

534  Jack.. 20 

574  The  Nabob : A Story  of  Parisiar 

Life  and  Manners 20 

1368  Lise  Tavernier * 

By  Daniel  Defoe. 

1312  Robinson  Crusoe 30 

By  R.  D’Ennery. 

242  The  T^vo  Orphans * 

By  Hugh  De  Norinand. 

1554  The  Gypsy  Queen 20 

Thomas  De  Quincey’s  Works. 
1059  Confessions  of  an  English  Opi- 
um-Eater  20 

1380  The  Soanish  Nun * 


By  Elsa  D’Esterre-Keeling. 

382  Three  Sisters 


Carl  Detlef’s  Works. 

1086  Nora 20 

1418  Irene 20 

Charles  Dickens’s  Works. 

10  The  Old  Curiosity  Shop 20 

22  David  Copperfield.  Vol.  I 20 

22  David  Copperfield.  Vol.  IT...  20 

24  Pickwick  Papers.  Vol.  1 20 

24  Pickwick  Papers.  Vol.  II 20 

37  Nicholas  Nickleby.  1st  half..  20 
37  Nicholas  Nickleby.  2d  half . . . 20 

41  Oliver  Twist 20 

77  A Tale  of  Two  Cities . . 20 

84  Hard  Times. * 

91  Barnaby  Rudge.  1st  half.  ...  20 

91  Barnaby  Rudge.  2d  half 20 

94  Little  Dorrit.  1st  half 20 

94  Little  Dorrit.  2d  half 20 

106  Bleak  House.  1st  half 20 

106  Bleak  House.  2d  half 20 

107  Dombey  and.  Son.  1st  half  ...  20 

107  Dombey  and  Son.  2d  half 20 

108  The  Cricket  on  the  Hearth,  and 

Doctor  Marigold * 

131  Our  Mutual  Friend.  1st  half.  20 

131  Our  Mutual  Friend.  2d  half..  20 

132  Metster  Humphrey’s  Clock, ...  * 


152  The  Uncommercial  Traveler. . 20 

168  No  Thoroughfare.  By  Dickens 

and  Collins * 

169  The  Haunted  Man * 

437  Life  and  Adventures  of  Martin 

Chuzzlewit.  1st  half 20 

437  Life  and  x\d ventures  of  Martin 
Chuzzlewit.  2d  half 20 

439  Great  Expectations 20 

440  Mrs.  Lirriper’s  Lodgings * 

447  American  Notes 20 

448  Pictures  From  Italy,  and  The 

Mud  fog  Papers,  &c 20 

454  The  Mystery  of  Edwin  Drood.  20 

456  Sketches  by  Boz.  Illustrative 
of  Every-day  Life  and  Every- 
day People 20 

676  A Child’s  History  of  England.  20 


By  the  Rt.  Hon.  Benjamin  Disra- 
eli, Earl  of  Beaconsfield. 

793  Vivian  Grey.  In  two  parts,  each  20 


By  the  Author  of  “Dr.  Edith 
Romney.” 

612  My  Wife’s  Niece 20 

By  Earl  of  De.sart. 

1301  The  Little  Chatelaine 20 


!!»arah  Doudney’s  Works. 

338  The  Family  Difficulty 

679  Where  Two  Ways  Meet 


By  A.  Conan  Doyle. 

1305  The  Firm  of  Girdlestone 20 

F.  Du  Boisgobey’s  Works. 

82  Sealed  Lips 20 

104  The  Coral  Pin.  Isf  half 20 

104  The  Coral  Pin.  2d  half 20 

264  Pi6douche,  a French  Detective  * 
328  Babiole.  the  Pretty  Milliner. 

First  half 20 

328  Babiole,  the  Pretty  Milliner. 

Second  half 20 

-153  The  Lottery  Ticket 20 

475  The  Prima  Donna’s  Husband.  20 

522  Zig-Zag,  the  Clown ; or,  The 

Steel  Gauntlets 20 

523  The  Consequences  of  a Duel.  A 

Parisian  Romance 20 

648  The  Angel  of  the  Bells 20 

697  The  Pretty  Jailer.  1st-  half . . . 20 
697  The  Pretty  Jailer.  2d  half.. ..  20 
699  The  Sculptor’s  Daughter.  1st 

half  20 

699  The  Sculptor’s  Daughter.  2d 

half 20 

782  The  Closed  Door.  1st  half 20 

782  The  Closed  Door.  2d  half. ...  20 
851  The  Cry  of  Blood.  1st  half...  20 

851  The  Cry  of  Blood.  2d  half 20 

918  The  Red  Band.  1st  half 20 

918  The  Red  Band.  2d  half 20 

942  Cash  on  Delivery 20 

1076  The  Mystery  of  an  Omnibus..  20 

1080  Bertha’s  Secret.  1st  half 20 

1080  Bertha’s  Secret.  2d  half 20 

1082  The  Severed  Hand.  1st  half..  20 
1082  The  Severed  Hand.  2d  halL.  20 


8 


THE  SEASIDE  LIBKARY— Pocket  Edition. 


1085  The  Matapan  Affair.  1st  half  20 
1085  The  Matapan  Affair.  2d  half  20 
1088  The  Old  Age  of  Monsieur  Le- 

coq.  1st  half 20 

1088  The  Old  Age  of  Monsieur  Le- 
coq.  2d  half 20 

“The  Duchess’ Worus. 

2 Molly  Bawn 20 

6 Portia 20 

14  Airy  Fairy  Lilian 20 

16  Phyllis 20 

25  Mrs.  Geoffrey.  (Large  type 

edition) 20 

950  Mrs.  Geoffrey * 

29  Beauty’s  Daughters * 

30  Faith  and  Unfaith 20 


118  Loys,  Lord  Berresford,  and 

Eric  Dering * 

119  Monica,  and  A Rose  Distill’d. . * 

123  Sweet  is  True  Love * 

129  Rossmoyne * 

134  The  Witching  Hour,  and  Other 

Stories * 

136  “That  Last  Rehearsal,”  and 

Other  Stories * 

166  Moonshine  and  Marguerites...  * 
171  Fortune’s  Wheel,  and  Other 

Stories * 

284  Doris 20 

312  A Week’s  Amusement;  or,  A 

Week  in  Killarney . ! * 

342  The  Baby,  and  One  New  Year’s 

Eve * 

390  Mildred  Trevanion * 

404  In  Durance  Vile,  and  Other 
Stories * 


486  Dick’s  Sweetheart 20 

494  A Maiden  All  Forlorn,  and  Bar- 
bara   * 

517  A Passive  Crime,  and  Other 

Stories * 

541  “ As  It  Fell  Upon  a Day.” * 

733  Lady  B ranks  mere 20 

771  A Mental  Struggle 20 

785  The  Haunted  Chamber * 

862  Ugly  Barrington * 

875  Lady  Valworth's  Diamotids. . . 20 
1009  In  an  Evil  Hour,  and  Other 

Stories 20 

1016  A Modern  Circe 20 

ia35  The  Duchess 20 

1047  Marvel 20 

1103  The  Honorable  Mrs.  Vereker. . 20 

1123  Under-Currents ■ 20 

1197  “Jerry.”  — “That  Night  in 
June.”— A Wrong  Tiiniing.— 

Irish  Love  and  Mnrriage * 

1209  A Troublesome  Girl 20 

1249  A Life’s  Remorse 20 

1333  A Born  Coquette 20 

1363  “April’s  I^dy  ” 20 

1453  Her  Last  Throw 20 

Alexander  Dumas’s  Works. 

55  The  Three  Guardsmen 20 

75  Twenty  Years  After 20 

262  The  Count  of  Monte-Cristo. 
Parti 30 


262  The  Count  of  Monte-Cristo. 

Part  H 30 

717  Beau  Tancrede ; or,  The  Mar- 
riage Verdict 20 

1058  Masaniello;  or.  The  Fisherman 

of  Naples 20 

1340  The  Son  of  Monte-Cristo.  1st 

half 20 

1340  The  Son  of  Monte-Cristo.  2d 
half 20 


George  Ebers’s  W'orks. 

474  Serapis.  An  Historical  Novel 

983  Uarda 

1056  The  Bride  of  the  Nile.  1st  half 
1056  The  Bride  of  the  Nile.  2d  half 

1094  Homo  Sum 

1097  The  Burgomaster’s  Wife 

1101  An  Egyptian  Princess.  Vol.  I. 
1101  An  Egyptian  Princess.  Vol.  H. 

1106  The  Emperor 

1112  Only  a Word 

1114  The  Sisters 

1198  Gred  of  Nuremberg.  A Ro- 
mance of  the  Fifteenth  Cent- 
ury  

1266  Joshua:  A Biblical  Picture 

Maria  Edgeworth’s  Works. 

708  Ormond 

788  The  Absentee.  An  Irish  Story. 

Amelia  B.  Edwards’s  Works. 

99  Barbara’s  History 

1364  My  Brother’s  Wife 

Mrs.  Annie  Edwards’s  Works 

644  A Girton  Girl 

834  A Ballroom  Repentance 

835  Vivian  the  Beauty 

836  A Point  of  Honor 

837  A Vagabond  Heroine 

838  Ought  We  to  Visit  Her? 

839  Leah:  A Woman  of  Fashion.. 

841  Jet:  Her  Face  or  Her  Fortune? 

842  A Blue-Stocking 

843  Archie  Lovell 

844  Susan  Fielding 

845  Philip  Earnscliffe  ; or.  The 

Blorals  of  May  Fair . . 

846  Steven  Lawrence.  1st  half... 

846  Steven  Lawrence.  2d  half 

850  A Playwright’s  Daughter 

By  H.  Sutherland  Edwards. 
917  The  Case  of  Reuben  Malachi. 

By  Mrs.  C.  J.  Eiloart. 

114  Some  of  Our  Girls 

George  Eliot’s  Works. 

3 The  Mill  on  the  Floss 

31  Middlemarch.  1st  half 

31  Middlemarch.  2d  half 

34  Daniel  Deronda.  1st  half 

34  Daniel  Deronda.  2d  half 

36  Adam  Bede.  1st  half 

36  Adam  Bede.  2d  half 

42  Romola 


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693  Felix  Holt,  the  Radical 20 

707  Silas  Marner:  The  Weaver  of 

Raveloe * 

728  Janet’s  Repentance * 

762  Impressions  of  Theophrastus 

Such * 

1441  Amos  Barton : * 

By  Frances  Elliot. 

381  The  Red  Cardinal * 

By  Eva  Evergreen. 

1358  Agatha 20 

By  Juliana  Horatia  Ewing. 

752  Jackanapes,  and  Other  Stories  * 
B.  Li.  Farjcon’s  Works. 


179  Little  Make-Believe * 

573  Love’s  Harvest 20 

607  Self-Doomed * 

616  The  Sacred  Nugget . 20 

657  Christmas  Angel * 

907  The  Bright  Star  of  Life 20 

909  The  Nine  of  Hearts 20 

1383  The  Mystery  of  M.  Felix 20 


liaugli. 

1343  Dream  Faces 20 

By  Heinrich  Felberniann. 

355  The  Princess  Dagomar  of  Po- 
land   * 

G.  Manville  Fenn’s  Works, 

193  The  Rosery  Folk * 

558  Poverty  Corner 20 

587  The  Parson  o’  Dumford 20 

609  The  Dark  House * 

1169  Commodore  Junk 20 

1276  The  Mynns’  Mystery 20 

1293  In  Jeopardy 20 

1302  The  Master  of  the  Ceremonies  20 
1313  Eve  at  the  Wheel 20 

1344  One  Maid's  Blischief fO 

1387  Eli’s  Children 20 


Octave  Feuillet’s  Works. 

66  The  Romance  of  a Poor  Young 

Man 

386  Led  Astray ; or,  “ La  Petite 


1427  AMarriage  in ’ High  Life*. 20 
Gertrude  Forde’s  Works. 

1072  Only  a Coral  Girl 20 

1349  In  the  Old  Palazzo 20 

By  B.  E.  Forrest. 

879  The  Touchstone  of  Peril 20 

iBrs.  Forrester’s  Works. 

80  June 20 


280  Omnia  Vanitas.  A Tale  of  So- 
ciety   

484  Although  He  Was  a Lord,  and 


Other  Tales * 

715  I Have  Lived  and  Loved 20 

721  Dolores . 20 

724  My  Lord  and  My  Lady 20 


726  My  Hero 

727  Fair  Women 

729  Blignon 

732  From  Olympus  to  Hades 

734  Viva 

736  Roy  and  Viola 

740  Rhona 

744  Diana  Carew;  or,  For  a Wom- 
an’s Sake 

883  Once  Again 

Jessie  Fothergill’s  Works. 

314  Peril 

572  Healey 

935  Borderland 

1099  The  Lasses  of  Leverhouse.  . . . 

1275  A March  in  the  Ranks 

1377  The  First  Violin 

By  Francesca. 

53  The  Story  of  Ida 

B.  E.  Fraucillon’s  Works. 

135  A Great  Heiress : A Fortune 

in  Seven  Checks 

319  Face  to  Face : A Fact  in  Seven 

Fables 

360  Ropes  of  Sand 

656  The  Golden  Flood.  By  R.  E. 

Francillon  and  Wm.  Senior.. 

911  Golden  Bells 

By  Mrs.  Alexander  Fraser. 

1351  She  Came  Between 

By  Charlotte  French. 

387  The  Secret  of  the  Cliffs 

By  J.  A.  Froude. 

1180  The  Two  Chiefs  of  Dunboy ; or, 
An  Irish  Romance  of  the  Last 
Century 

By  liiady  Georgiana  Fullerton 
1286  Ellen  Middleton 

Emile  Gaboriau’s  Works. 

7 File  No.  113 

12  Other  People’s  Money 

20  Within  an  Inch  of  His  Life. . . 

26  Monsieur  Lecoq.  Vol  I 

26  Monsieur  Lecoq.  Vol.  II 

33  The  Clique  of  Gold 

38  The  Widow  Lerouge 

43  The  Mystery  of  Orcival 

144  Promises  of  Marriage 

979  The  Count’s  Secret.  Part  I . . . 

979  The  Count’s  Secret.  Part  H . . 

1002  Marriage  at  a Venture 

1015  A Thousand  Francs  Reward.. 

1045  The  13th  Hussars 

1078  The  Slaves  of  Paris.— Black- 
mail. 1st  half 20 

1078  The  Slaves  of  Paris.  — The 
Champdoce  Secret.  2d  half. . 20 
1083  The  Little  Old  Man  of  the  Bat- 

ignolles 

1167  Captain  Contanceau. 


20 


*88888^88  8’8  8 8 8*8«*  * 8888,88  88  8888888 


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THE  SEASIDE  LIBRARY— Pocket  Edition. 


By  Edward  Garrett. 

352  At  Any  Cost * 

By  Mrs.  Gaskell. 

938  Cranford 20 

Charles  Gibbon’s  Works. 

64  A Maiden  Fair * 

317  By  Mead  and  Stream 20 

1277  Was  Ever  Woman  in  this  Hu- 
mor Wooed? 20 

1434  The  Golden  Shaft 20 

By  D.  Cecil  Gibbs. 

807  If  Love  Be  Love 20 

Tbeo.  Gift’s  Works. 

1300  Lil  Lorimer 20 

1435  Dishonored 20 

By  Gilbert  and  Sullivan. 

692  The  Mikado,  and  Other  Comic 
Operas 20 

By  Ida  Linn  Girard. 

1360  A Dangerous  Game 20 

By  tiioetbe. 

1043  Faust : 20 


Oliver  Goldsmith’s  Works. 

801  She  Stoops  to  Conquer,  and 


The  Good-Natured  Man * 

1316  The  Vicar  of  Wakefield * 

By  Edward  Goodman. 

1081  Too  Curious 20 

By  Mrs.  Gore. 

1449  The  Dean’s  Daughter 20 

By  liarbara  Graham. 

532  Arden  Court 20 


James  Grant’s  Works. 

566  Tlie  Royal  Higlilandei*s ; or, 


The  Black  Watch  iu  Egypt...  20 
781  The  Secret  Dispatch * 

Miss  Grant’s  Works. 

222  The  Sun-Maid 20 

555  Cara  Roma 20 

By  Annabel  Gray. 

1374  Terribly  Tempted 

By  Arnold  Gray. 

965  Periwinkle 20 

Maxwell  Gray’s  Works. 

10J34  The  Silence  of  Dean  Maitland.  20 
1182  The  Reproach  of  Annesley 20 

Arthur  Griffiths’s  Works. 

614  No.  99 * 

680  Fast  and  Loose 20 

By  Cecil  Griffith. 

583  Victory  Deane 20 


By  the  Author  of  “Guilty  With- 
out Clime,’’ 

545  Vida’s  Story * 


H.  Rider  Haggard’s  Works. 


432  The  Witch’s  Head 20 

753  King  Solomon’s  Mines 20 


910  She:  A History  of  Adventure. 

941  Jess 

959  Dawn 

989  Allan  <3uatermain 

1049  A Tale  of  Three  Lions,  and  On 

Going  Back 

1100  Mr.  Meeson  s Will 

1105  Maiwa’s  Revenge 

1140  Colonel  Quaritch,  V.  C 

1145  My  Fellow  Laborer 

1190  Cleopatra:  Being  an  Account 
of  the  Fall  and  Vengeance  of 
Harmachis,  the  Royal  Egyp- 
tian, as  Set  Forth  by  his  own 

Hand 

1248  Allan’s  Wife 

1335  Beatrice 

By  Liidovic  Halevy. 

1408  L’Abbe  Constantin ? 

Thomns  Hardy’s  Works. 

139  The  Romantic  Adventures  of 

a Milkmaid 

530  A Pair  of  Blue  Eyes 

690  Far  From  the  Madding  Crowd 
791  The  Mayor  of  Casterbridge. . . 

945  The  Trumpet-Major 

957  The  Woodlanders 

1309  Desperate  Remedies 

1430  Two  on  a Tower 

John  B,  Harwood’s  Works. 

143  One  False,  Botli  Fair 

858  Within  the  Clasp 

1307  The  Lady  Egeria 

Joseph  Hatton’s  Works. 

1390  Clytie ... 

1429  By  Order  of  the  Czar 

Mary  Cecil  Hay’s  Works. 

65  Back  to  tlie  Old  Home 

72  Old  MyddeltoiTs  Money 

196  Hidden  Perils 

197  For  Her  Dear  Sake 

224  The  Arundel  Motto 

281  The  Squire’s  Legacy 

290  Nora’s  Love  Test 

408  Lester’s  Secret 

678  Dorothy’s  Venture 

716  Victor  and  Vanquished — 

849  A Wicked  Girl..'. 

987  Brenda  Yorke 

1026  A Dark  Inheritance 

W.  Heimbiirg’s  Works. 

994  A Pennile.ss  Orphan 

1175  Tale  of  aii  Old  Castle 

1188  My  Heai  t’s  Darling 

1216  'Phe  Stoiy  of  a Clergyman’s 


Daugliter 20 

1242  Lenore  Von  Tollen 20 

1270  Gertrude’s  Marriage 20 

1289  Her  Only  Brother 20 


888  gg  ggg  ggggggs*  8 *88  88888  8888 


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By  Fr.  Henkel. 

1030  The  Mistress  of  Ibichstein 20 

By  G.  A.  Henty. 

1224  The  Curse  of  Game’s  Hold 20 

By  H.  Herman. 

1419  Scarlet  Fortune * 

1567  The  Bishops’  Bible.  By  D.  C. 

]\lurray  and  H.  Herman 20 

By  John  Hill. 

112  The  Waters  of  Marah 20 

Mrs.  Cashel-Hoey’s  Works. 

313  The  Lover’s  Creed 20 

802  A Stern  Chase 20 

By  Thomas  Holcomb. 


1369  The  Counterfeiters  of  the  Cuy- 


ahoga  * 

By  Mrs.  M.  A.  Holmes. 

1338  A Woman’s  Vengeance 20 

By  Thomas  Hood. 

407  Tylney  Hall 20 

Tiglie  Hopkins’s  Works. 

509  Nell  Haffenden 20 

<14  ’Tvvixt  Love  and  Duty 20 

By  Mary  Hoppus. 

170  A Great  4'reason,  1st  half. . . 20 
170  A Great  Treason,  2d  half 20 

By  Arabella  M.  Hopkinson. 

1348  Life’s  Fitful  Fever 20 

By  Robert  Hoiidin. 

1406  The  Tiicks  of  the  Greeks 20 

Thomas  Hughes’ s Works. 

120  Tom  Brown’s  School  Days  at 

Rugby 20 

1139  Tom  Brown  at  Oxford.  Vol.  I.  20 
1139  Tom  Browm  at  Oxford.  Vol.  11.  20 

By  Victor  Hugo. 

8S5  Les  Mis6rables.  Parti 20 

885  Les  Miserables.  Part  II 20 

885  Les  Mi s6 rabies.  Part  HI 20 

Fergus  W.  Hume’s  Works. 
1075  The  Mystery  of  a Hansom  Cab.  20 

1127  Madam  Midas ; 20 

1232  The  Piccadilly  Puzzle 20 

1425  The  Man  with  a Secret 20 

By  Mrs.  Alfred  Hunt. 

915  That  Other  Person.  1st  half . . 20 
915  That  Other  Person.  2d  half. . . 20 
By  Stanley  Huntley. 

1466  The  Spoopendyke  Papers 20 


By  Jean  Ingelow. 

1563  Quite  Another  Story 20 

By  Ralph  Iron  fOliTe  Schreiner]. 
1120  The  Story  of  an  African  Farm.  20 


By  Washington  Irving. 

643  The  Sketch-Book  of  Geofifrej” 
Crayon,  Gent .*.  20 

By  G.  P.  R.  James. 

218  Agnes  Sorel 20 

Harriet  Jay’s  Works. 

334  A Marriage  of  Convenience. . . * 
1412  The  Dark  Colleen 20 

Edward  Jenkins’s  Works. 

458  A Week  of  Passion;  or,  The 
* Dilemma  of  Mr.  George  Bar- 
ton the  Younger 20 

810  The  Secret  of  Her  Life 20 


Jerome  K.  Jerome’s  Works. 

1331  The  Idle  Thoughts  of  an  Idle 

Fellow * 

1359  Stageland * 

1517  Three  Men  in  a Boat 20 

By  Philippa  Prittie  Jephson. 

176  An  April  Day * 

By  H.  T.  Johnson. 

1183  Jack  of  Hearts.  A Story  of 


Bohemia 20 

By  Evelyn  Kimball  Johnson. 

1361  Tangles  Unravelled 20 


By  Samuel  Johnson,  Eli.D. 

1384  The  History  of  Rasselas,  Prince 
of  Abyssinia * 

By  H.  H.  Johnston. 

1212  The  History  of  a Slave. 20 

Works  by  the  Author  of  **  Judith 
Wynne.” 

332  Judith  Wynne 20 

506  Lady  Lovelace 20 

Mrs.  Edward  Kennard’s  Works. 

1092  A Glorious  Gallop 20 

1282  Matron  or  Maid 20 

By  Grace  Kennedy. 

1464  Dunallan  30 

By  John  P,  Kennedy. 

1440  Horse-Shoe  Robinson 30 

By  Richard  Ashe  King. 

1262  Passion’s  Slave 20 

Charles  Kingsley’s  Works. 

266  The  Water-Babies * 

1320  Hypatia 30 

William  H.  G.  Kingston’s  Works. 

117  A Tale  of  the  Shore  and  Ocean  20 

133  Peter  the  Whaler * 

761  Will  Weatherhelm 20 

763  The  Midshipman,  Marmaduke 
Merry  20 


13 


THE  SEASIDE  LIBEARY— Pocket  Edition, 


Rudyard  Kipling’s  Works. 

1439  Plain  Tales  from  the  Hills 20 

1443  Soldiers  Three,  and  Other  Sto- 

|•|0<g ^ 2Q 

1479  1'he  Phantom  ’Rickshaw 20 

1499  The  Story  of  the  Gadsbys .....  * 

1. 1.  Kraszet^'ski’s  Works. 

1174  The  Polish  Princess 20 

1207  The  Princess  and  the  Jew 20 

By  May  Ijafiaii. 

681  A Singer’s  Story * 


By  the  Author  of  “ liady  Gwendo- 
len’s Tryst.” 

809  Witness  My  Hand * 

By  Andrew  l^ang. 

773  The  Mark  of  Cain * 


By  Mrs.  Andrew  Tiang. 

536  Dissolving  Views * 

By  the  Hon.  Emily  Eawless. 

748  Hurrish:  A Study 20 

By  M.  E.  liO  Clerc. 

1220  Mistress  Beatrice  Cope;  or, 
Passages  in  the  Life  of  a Jac- 
obite’s Daughter 20 

Vernon  Lee’s  Works. 

399  Miss  Brown 20 

859  Ottilie:  An  Eighteenth  Century 
Idyl.  By  Vernon  Lee.  The 
Prince  of  the  100  Soups.  Edit- 
ed by  Vernon  Lee 20 

By  H.  F.  Lester. 

1531  Hartas  Maturin 20 

f’harfe.s  Lever’s  Works. 

191  Harry  Lorrequer .* 20 

212  Charles  O’Malley,  the  Irish 

Dragoon.  1st  half 20 

212  Charles  O’Malley,  the  Irish 

Dragoon.  2d  half 20 

243  Tom  Burke  of  “ Ours.”  1st  half  20 
243  Tom  Burke  of  “ Ours.”  2d  half  20 

By  Fanny  Lewald. 

436  Stella 20 

By  George  Henry  Lewes. 

442  Ranthorpe 20 

Mary  Linskill’s  Works. 

473  A Lost  Son 20 

620  Between  the  Heather  and  the 
Northern  Sea 20 

Mrs.  E.  liyiin  Linton’s  Works. 

122  lone  Stewart 20 

817  Stabbed  in  the  Dark * 

886  Paston  Carew,  Millionaire  and 

Miser 20 

1109  Through  the  Long  Nights.  1st 
half 20 


1109  Through  the  Long  Nights.  2d 

half 

1417  Under  Which  Lord? 

1507  Sowing  the  Wind 

By  Mrs.  l.odge. 

174  Under  a Ban 

By  the  Author  of  “Lover  am 
Lord.” 

510  A Mad  Love 

Samuel  liover’s  Works. 

663  Handy  Andy 

664  Rory  O’More 

1386  The  Happy  Man  and  the  Hall 

Porter 

By  Heni’y  W.  Lucy. 

1452  Gideon  Fleyce 

Edna  Ly all’s  Works. 

738  In  the  Golden  Days 

1147  Knight-Errant 

1149  Donovan:  A Modern  English- 
man   

1160  We  Two 

1173  Won  by  Waiting 

1196  A Hardy  Norseman 

1197  The  Autobiography  of  a Slan- 

der  

1206  Derrick  Vaughan— Novelist.. . 

Sir  E.  Bulwer  Lytton’s  Works 

40  The  Last  Days  of  Pompeii.  . . . 

83  A Strange  Story 

90  Ernest  Maltravers 

130  The  Last  of  the  Barons.  1st  half 
130  The  Last  of  the  Barons.  2d  half 

161  The  Lady  of  Lyons.  Founded 

on  the  Play 

162  Eugene  Aram 

164  Leila ; or,The  Siege  of  Grenada 
650  Alice;  or,  The  Mysteries.  (A  Se- 
quel to  “ Ernest  Maltravers  ”) 

720  Paul  Clifford 

1144  Rienzi 

1326  What  Will  He  Do  With  It?  1st 

half 

1326  What  Will  He  Do  With  It?  2d 

half 

1339  The  Caxtons 

1393  The  Coming  Race 

1420  The  Haunted  House 

1446  Zanoni 

1448  Night  and  Morning. 

By  Maarten  Maartens. 

1323  The  Sin  of  Joost  Avelingh 

By  Hugh  MacColl. 

1319  Mr.  Strangers’  Sealed  Packet. 

George  Macdonald’s  Works. 
282  Donal  Grant 

325  The  Portent 

326  Phantastes.  A Faerie  Romance 

for  Men  and  Women 

722  What’s  Mine’s  Mine 

1041  Home  Again 

1118  The  Elect  Lady 


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By  Norman  Macleod,  ]>*D« 

158  The  Starling * 

By  Ijady  Margaret  Majendie. 

185  Dita * 

Katharine  S.  Macqiioid’s  Works. 


479  Louisa 20 

914  Joan  Wentworth 20 

1283  Cosette 20 

1306  The  Haunted  Fountain,  and  • 

Hetty’s  Revenge 20 

1311  At  the  Red  Glove 20 

1473  Miss  Eyon  of  Eyon  Court 20 

1495  The  Old  Courtyard 20 

By  the  Author  of  “ Mademoiselle 
Mori.” 

920  A Child  of  the  Revolution 20 

By  Liiicas  Malet. 

493  Colonel  Enderby’s  Wife 20 

By  Alessandro  Mauzoni. 

581  The  Betrothed.  (I  Promessi 
Sposi) 20 

E.  Marlitt’s  Works. 

652  The  Lady  with  the  Rubies 20 

858  Old  Ma’m’selle’s  Secret 20 

972  Gold  Elsie 20 

999  The  Second  Wife 20 

1093  In  the  Schillingscourt 20 

1111  In  the  Counsellor’s  House 20 

1113  The  Bailiff’s  Maid 20 

1115  The  Countess  Gisela 20 

1130  The  Owl-House 20 

1136  The  Princess  of  the  Moor 20 

By  Ethel  Marryat. 

1519  A Professional  Lady-Killer * 


Florence  Marry at’s  Works. 
159  Captain  Norton’s  Diary,  and 

A Moment  of  Madness 

183  Old  Contrairy,  and  Other 


Stories * 

208  The  Ghost  of  Charlotte  Cray, 

and  Other  Stories * 

276  Under  the  Lilies  and  Roses. . . * 

444  The  Heart  of  Jane  Warner 20 

449  Peeress  and  Player 20 

689  The  Heir  Presumptive 20 

825  The  Master  Passion 20 

860  Her  Lord  and  Master 20 

861  My  Sister  the  Actress 20 

8^  “ My  Own  Child.” 20 

864  ” No  Intentions.” 20 

865  Written  in  Fire 20 

866  Miss  Harrington’s  Husband; 

or.  Spiders  of  Society 20 

867  The  Girls  of  Feversham 20 

868  Petronel 20 

869  The  Poison  of  Asps * 

870  Out  of  His  Reckoning * 

872  With  Cupid’s  Eyes 20 

873  A Harvest  of  Wild  Oats 20 

877  Facing  the  Footlights 20 

893  Love’s  Conflict.  1st  half 20 

893  Love’^  Conhigt. , 2d  h^.lf 20 


895  A Star  and  a Heart 

897  Ange ; or,  A Broken  Blossom. . 

899  A Little  Stepson 

901  A Lucky  Disappointment 

903  Phyllida 

905  The  Fair-Haired  Alda 

939  Why  Not? 

993  Fighting  the  Air 

998  Open  Sesame 

1004  Mad  Dumaresq 

1013  The  Confessions  of  Gerald  Est- 

court 

1022  Driven  to  Bay 

1126  Gentleman  and  Courtier 

1184  A Crown  of  Shame 

1191  On  Circumstantial  Evidence.. 

1250  How  They  Loved  Him 

1251  Her  Father’s  Name 

1257  Mount  Eden 

1355  Blindfold 

1527  A Scarlet  Sin 

Captain  Marryat’s  Works. 

88  The  Privateersman 

272  The  Little  Savage 

279  Rattlin,  the  Reefer 

991  Mr.  Midshipman  Easy 

1165  The  Sea-King 

1218  Mastermau  Ready 

1230  The  Phantom  Ship 

By  Emma  Marshall. 

766  No.  XIII;  or.  The  Story  of  the 
Lost  Vestal 

By  Mrs.  Herbert  Martin. 

156  “ For  a Dream’s  Sake  ” 

Harriet  Martineau’s  Works. 

1332  Homes  Abroad — 

1334  For  Each  and  For  All 

1336  Hill  and  Valley 

By  Charles  Marvin. 

457  The  Russians  at  the  Gates  of 
Herat 

Helen  B.  Mathers’s  Works. 

13  Eyre’s  Acquittal 

221  Cornin’  Thro’  the  Rye 

438  Found  Out 

535  Murder  or  Manslaughter? 

673  Story  of  a Sin 

713  ” Cherry  Ripe  ” 

795  Sam’s  Sweetheart 

798  The  Fashion  of  this  World — 

799  My  Lady  Green  Sleeves 

1254  Hedri;  or,  Blind  Justice 

A.  Matthey’s  Works. 

1239  The  Virgin  Widow.  A Realistic 

Novel. . 20 

1432  Duke  of  Kandos 20 

1436  The  Two  Duchesses 20 

By  Isabella  Fyvie  Mayo. 

662  The  Mystery  of  Allan  Grale. . . 20 
By  W.  Mayo. 

1442  The  Berl^er. 20 


14 


THE  SEASIDE  LIBRARY— Pocket  Edition. 


By  C.  Maxwell. 

1362  A Story  of  Three  Sisters 20 

Justin  McCarthy’s  Works. 

121  Maid  of  Athens 20 

602  Camiola 20 

685  England  Under  Gladstone. 

1880-1885  20 

747  Our  Sensation  Novel.  Edited 
by  Justin  H.  McCarthy,  M.P. , * 

779  Doom!  An  Atlantic  Episode . . *• 

1233  Roland  Oliver 20 

1403  The  Rival  Princess.  By  Justin 
McCarthy  and  Mrs.  Campbell 
Praed 20 

li.  T.  Meade’s  Works. 

1295  A Girl  of  the  People 20 

1487  Frances  Kane’s  Fortune * 

George  Meredith’s  Works. 

350  Diana  of  the  Cross\va5’^s * 

1146  Rhoda  Fleming 20 

1150  The  Egoist 20 

Jean  Middlemas’s  Works. 

155  Lady  Muriel’s  Secret 20 

539  Siivermead 20 

Mrs.  Moles  worth’s  Works. 

654  “ Us.”  An  Old-fashioned  Story  * 
992  Marrying  and  Giving  in  Mar- 
riage  20 

By  J.  Fitzgerald  Molloy. 

1451  How  Came  He  Dead? 20 

Alan  Muir’s  Works. 

172  “Golden  Girls” 20 

346  Tumbledown  Farm * 


By  Rosa  Miilholland. 

921  The  Late  Miss  Hollingford. 
Miss  Mulock’s  Works. 


11  John  Halifax,  Gentleman.  1st 

half 20 

11  John  Halifax,  Gentleman.  2d 

half 20 

245  Miss  Tommy,  and  In  a House- 

Boat * 

808  King  Arthur.  Not  a Love  Story  20 

1018  Two  Marriages 20 

1038  Mistress  and  Maid 20 

1053  Young  Mrs.  Jardine 20 

David  Christie  Murray’s  Works. 

58  By  the  Gate  of  the  Sea * 

195  “ The  Way  of  the  World  ” 20 

320  A Bit  of  Human  Nature * 

661  Rainbow  Gold 20 

674  First  Person  Singular 20 

691  Valentine  Strange 20 

695  Hearts:  Queen,  Knave,  and 

Deuce 20 

698  A Life's  Atonement 20 

737  Aunt  Rachel * 


826  Cynic  Fortune 20 

898  Bulldog  and  Butterfly,  and  Ju- 
lia and  Her  Romeo.* 20 

1102  Young  Mr.  Barter’s  Repent- 
ance   * 

1162  The  Weaker  Vessel 20 

1177  A Dangerous  Cat’s-paw.  By 
D.  C.  Murray  and  H.  Murray.  20 
1214  Wild  Darrie.  By  D.  C.  Murray 

and  H.  Herman.. 20 

1256  Sweetbriar  in  Town.  By  D.  C. 

Murray  and  H.  Herman 20 

1567  The  Bishops’  Bible.  By  D.  C. 
Murray  and  H.  Herman 20 


Works  by  the  author  of  “ My 
Ducats  and  My  Daughter.” 

376  The  Crime  of  Christmas  Day.  * 
596  My  Ducats  and  My  Daughter. . 20 

By  the  Author  of  “My  Mar- 
riage.” 

778  Society’s  Verdict 20 


By  the  Author  of  “ Nobody’s  Dar- 
ling.” 

954  A Girl’s  Heart 20 

ByMrs.  J.H.  Needell. 

582  Lucia,  Hugh  and  Another 20 


W.  E.  Norris’s  Works. 


184  Thirlby  Hall 20 

277  A Man  of  His  Word * 

355  That  Terrible  Man * 

500  Adrian  Vidal 20 

824  Her  Own  Doing * 

848  My  Friend  Jim 20 

871  A Bachelor’s  Blunder 20 

1019  Major  and  Minor.  1st  half 20 

1019  Major  and  Minor.  2d  half 20 

1084  Chris  . 20 

1141  The  Rogue.  1st  half 20 

1141  The  Rogue.  2d  half 20 

1203  Miss  Shafto 20 

1258  Mrs.  Fenton 20 

1278  Misadventure 20 

1395  The  Baffled  Conspirators 20 

1465  No  New  Thing 20 

By  Mrs.  Power  D’Donoghue. 

718  Unfairly  Won 20 


Alice  O’ Hanlon’s  Works. 

634  The  Unforeseen 20 

1357  A.  Diamond  in  the  Rough 20 

Georges  Ohnet’s  Works. 

219  Lady  Clare : or.  The  Master  of 

the  Forges * 

1274  Prince  Serge  Panine 20 

1288  A Last  Love 20 

1321  The  Rival  Actresses 20 


Laurence  Oliphant’s  Works. 

47  AltioraPeto 20 

537  Piccadilly — * 


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Mrs.  Olipliaiit’s  Works. 

45  A Little  Pilgrim * 

177  Salem  Chapel 20 

205  The  Minister’s  Wife 30 

321  The  Prodigals,  and  Their  In- 


heritance  * 

337  Memoirs  and  Resolutions  of 
Adam  Graemd  of  Mossgray, 
including  sdme  Chronicles  of 

the  Borough  of  Fendie 20 

345  Madam 20 

351  The  House  on  the  Moor 20 

357  John 20 

370  Lucy  Crofton * 

371  Margaret  Maitland 20 

377  Magdalen  Hepburn : A Story  of 

the  Scottish  Reformation. . ..  20 
402  Lilliesleaf : or,  Passages  in  the 
Life  of  Mrs.  Margaret  Mait- 
land of  Sunnyside 20 

410  Old  Lady  Mary * 

527  The  Days  of  My  Life 20 

528  At  His  Gates 20 

568  The  Perpetual  Curate 20 

569  Harry  Muir 20 

603  Agnes.  1st  half 20 

603  Agnes.  2d  half 20 

604  Innocent.  1st  half 20 

604  Innocent.  2d  half 20 

605  Ombra 20 

645  Oliver’s  Bride  * 

655  The  Open  Door,  and  The  Por- 
trait   * 

687  A Country  Gentleman 20 

703  A House  Divided  Against  Itself  20 
710  The  Greatest  Heiress  in  Eng- 
land   20 

827  Effie  Ogilvie 20 

880  The  Son  of  His  Father  20 

902  A Poor  Gentleman 20 

Max  O’Rell’s  Works. 

203  John  Bull  and  His  Island * 

1222  Jacques  Bonhomme,  and  John 

Bull  on  the  Continent 20 

“ Ouida’s  ” Works. 

4 Under  Two  Flags 20 

9 Wanda,  Countess  von  Szalras.  20 

116  Moths 20 

128  Afternoon,  and  Other  Sketches  * 

226  Friendship 20 

228  Princess  Napraxine 20 

238  Pascarel 20 

239  Signa 20 

433  A Rainy  June * 

639  Othmar.  1st  half 20 

639  Othmar.  2d  half 20 

671  Don  Gesualdo * 

672  In  Maremma.  1st  half 20 

672  In  Maremma.  2d  half 20 

874  A House  Party * 

974  Strathmore;  or.  Wrought  by 

His  Own  Hand.  1st  half 20 

974  Strathmore;  or.  Wrought  by 

His  Own  Hand.  2d  half 20 

981  Granville  de  Vigne;  or,  Held  in 
Bondage.  1st  half 20 


981  Granville  de  Vigne;  or,  Held  in 

Bondage.  2d  half 

996  Idalia.  1st  half 

996  Idalia.  2d  half 

1000  Puck.  1st  half 

1000  Puck.  2d  half 

1003  Chandos.  1st  half 

1003  Chandos.  2d  half 

1017  Tricotrin.  1st  half 

1017  Tricotrin.  2d  half 

1176  Guilderoy 

1308  Syrlin 

1575  Rufflno 


Louisa  Parr’s  Works. 

1428  Robin 

1587  Dumps 

James  Payn’s  Works. 

48  Thicker  Than  Water 

186  The  Canon’s  Ward 

343  The  Talk  of  the  Town 

577  In  Peril  and  Privation 

589  The  Luck  of  the  Darrells 

823  The  Heir  of  the  Ages . . 

1271  One  of  the  Family 

1381  The  Burnt  Million 

1405  The  Eavesdropper 

1555  The  Word  and  the  Will 20 


By  Sylvio  Pellico. 

725  My  Ten  Years’  Imprisonment  * 


By  the  Author  of  “ Petite’s  Ro- 
mance.” 

786  Ethel  Mildmay’s  Follies 20 

By  F.  C.  Philips. 

1287  A Daughter’s  Sacrifice 20 


By  Arthur  W.  Pinero. 

1372  Sweet  Lavender * 


By  William  Pole,  F.R.S. 

669  The  Philosophy  of  Whist 20 

Miss  Jane  Porter’s  Works. 

660  The  Scottish  Chiefs.  1st  half.  20 
660  The  Scottish  Chiefs.  2d  half.  20 
696  Thaddeus  of  Warsaw 20 

Cecil  Power’s  Works. 

336  Philistia 20 

611  Babylon 20 

E.  Frances  Poynter’s  Works. 

526  Madame  De  Presnel 20 

1523  The  Failure  of  Elizabeth 20 


Mrs.  Campbell  Praed’s  Works. 

428  Zero : A Story  of  Monte-Carlo  * 

477  Affinities * 

811  The  Head  Station 20 

1296  An  Australian  Heroine 20 

1403  The  Rival  Princess.  By  Justin 
McCarthy  and  Mrs.  Campbell 
Praed 20 

By  Alice  Price. 

908  A Willful  Young  Woman 20 


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Eleanor  C.  Price’s  Works* 


173  The  Foreigners 20 

331  Gerald 20 


149  The  Captain’s  Daughter.  From 
the  Russian  of  Pushkin * 

By  the  Author  of  “Queen  of  the 
County.” 

1438  Margaret  and  Her  Bridesmaids  20 
By  Queen  Victoria. 


178  More  Leaves  from  the  Journal 
of  a Life  in  the  Highlands.  * 

Hyder  Ragged’s  Works* 

966  He 20 

970  King  Solomon’s  Wives;  or.  The 
Phantom  Mines 20 

Charles  Reade’s  Works* 

46  Very  Hard  Cash 20 

98  A Woman-Hater 2C 


206  The  Picture,  and  Jack  of  All 

Trades * 

210  Readiana : Comments  on  Cur- 
rent Events * 

213  A Terrible  Temptation ^0 

214  Put  Yourself  in  His  Place 20 

216  Foul  Play 20 

231  Griffith  Gaunt;  or,  Jealousy..  20 

232  Love  and  Money ; or,  A Peril- 

ous Secret * 

235  “It  is  Never  Too  Late  to 
Mend . ” A Matter- of -F act  Ro- 


mance  20 

1382  Single  Heart  and  Double  Face  * 

By  Compton  Reade. 

•340  Under  Which  King? 20 

By  R.  F.  Redd. 

1410  Freckles 20 

By  Captain  Mayne  Reid. 

575  The  Finger  of  Fate 20 

By  T.  Wemyss  Reid. 

723  Mauleverer’s  Millions 20 

Fritz  Reuter’s  Works. 

750  An  Old  Story  of  My  Farming 

Days.  1st  half 20 

750  An  Old  Story  of  My  Farming 
Days.  2d  half 20 

Mrs.  J.  H.  Riddell’s  Works. 

71  A Struggle  for  Fame 20 

593  Berna  Boyle 20 

1007  Miss  Gascoigne 20 

1077  The  Nun’s  Curse 20 

1273  Susan  Drummond 20 

1579  Princess  Sunshine 20 

“Rita’s”  Works. 

252  A Sinless  Secret * 

446  Dame  Durden 20 

598  “ Corinna.’’  A Study * 

617  Like  Dian’s  Kiss 20 

1125  The  Mystery  of  a Turkish  Bath  * 


1192  Bliss  Kate ; or,  Confessions  of 

a Caretaker 

1215  Adrian  Lyle 

1229  “ Sheba A Study  of  Girlhood 
1237  A Vagabond  Lover 

1252  The  Seventh  Dream 

1253  The  Ladye  Nancy e 

1298  Gretchen 

1315  A Society  Scandal 

1491  The  Doctor’s  Secret 

By  Sir  H.  Roberts. 

1458  Harry  Holbrooke 

F.  W.  Robinson’s  Works* 

157  Milly’sHero 

217  The  Man  She  Cared  For 

261  A Fair  Maid 

455  Lazarus  in  London 

590  The  Courting  of  Blary  Smith. . 

1005  99  Dark  Street 

1284  Our  Erring  Brother 

1539  A Very  Strange  Family 

1547  The  Keeper  of  the  Keys 

F.  Mabel  Robinson’s  Works. 

501  Mr.  Butler’s  Ward 

1457  A Woman  of  the  World 

By  Regina  Maria  Roche. 

852  The  Children  of  the  Abbey 

By  Mrs.  J.  Harcourt  Roe. 

683  The  Bachelor  Vicar  of  New- 
forth 

' By  Mrs.  Rowson. 

61  Charlotte  Temple 

W.  Clark  Russell’s  Works. 

85  A Sea  Queen 

109  Little  Loo 

180  Round  the  Galley  Fire 

209  John  Holdsworth,  Chief  Blate. 

223  A Sailor’s  Sweetheart 

592  A Strange  Voyage 

682  In  the  Middle  Watch.  Sea 

Stories 

743  Jack’s  Courtship.  1st  half. . . 

743  Jack’s  Courtship.  2d  half 

884  A Voyage  to  the  Cape 

916  The  Golden  Hope 

1044  The  Frozen  Pirate 

1048  TheAVreckof  the“Grosvenor” 
1129  The  Flying  Dutchman;  or.  The 

Death  Ship 

1210  Blarooned 

1213  Jenny  Harlowe 

1260  An  Ocean  Tragedy.  1st  half. . 20 
1260  An  Ocean  Tragedy.  2d  half..  20 
1603  My  Shipmate  Louise 20 

By  Dora  Russell. 

103  Rose  Fleming * 

By  George  Augustus  Sala. 

756  The  Strange  Adventures  of  Cap- 
tain Dangerous.  A Narrative 
in  Plain  English 20 


gg  ggggggg  * 8 8 88  888888888  8 8»8888888 


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By  John  iSauiiflcr^. 

105  A Noble  Wife 20 

Sir  Walter  Scott’s  Works. 

28  Ivanhoe ^ 

201  The  Monastery 20 

202  The  Abbot.  (Sequel  to  “The 

Monastery  ”) 20 

353  The  Black  Dwarf,  and  A Le- 
gend of  Montrose 20 

362  The  Bride  of  Lammermoor. . . 20 

363  The  Surgeon’s  Daughter * 

364  Castle  Dangerous * 

391  The  Heart  of  Mid-Lothian 20 

392  Peveril  of  the  Peak 20 

393  The  Pirate 20 

401  Waverley 20 

417  The  Fair  Maid  of  Perth ; or,  St. 

Valentine’s  Day 20 

418  St.  Ronan’s  Well 20 

463  Redgauntlet.  A Tale  of  the 

Eighteenth  Century 20 

507  Chronicles  of  the  (IJanongate, 

and  Other  Stories * 

1060  The  Lady  of  the  Lake 20 

1063  Kenilworth.  1st  half 20 

1063  Kenilworth.  2d  half 20 

1164  Rob  Roy.  1st  half 20 

1164  Rob  Roy.  2d  half 20 


1166  The  Betrothed : A Tale  of  the 
Crusaders,  and  the  Chronicles 
of  the  Canongate.  1st  half..  20 
1166  The  Betrothed:  A Tale  of  the 
Crusaders,  and  the  Chronicles 
of  the  Canongate.  2d  half...  20 


1226  The  Talisman 20 

By  Eugene  Scribe. 

1416  Fleurette 20 

Adeline  Sergeant’s  Works. 

257  beyond  Recall * 

812  No  Saint 20 

1231  A Life  Sentence 20 

1241  The  Luck  of  the  House 20 

1310  A True  Friend 20 

1503  Under  False  Pretences 20 

1513  Fleetwood’s  End * 


1591  The  Great  Mill  Street  Mystery  20 
By  Anna  Sewell. 

1421  “Black  Beauty:’’  The  Autobi- 


ography of  a Horse 20 

By  William  Sharp, 

1559  Children  of  To-morrow 20 

By  Flora  L.  Shaw, 

441  A Sea  Change 20 

By  George  Bernard  Shaw, 

937  Cashel  Byron’s  Profession 20 


By  Mary  Wolstonecraft  Shelley. 

1376  Frankenstein * 

J.  H.  Shorthoiise’s  Works. 

Ill  The  Little  School-master  Mark  * 
1148  The  Countess  Eve 20 


William  Sime’s  Works. 

429  Boulderstone ; or.  New  Men 

and  Old  Populations * 

580  The  Red  Route 20 

597  Haco  the  Dreamer * 

649  Cradle  and  Spade 20 

George  K.  Sims’s  Works. 

816  Rogues  and  Vagabonds 20 

1535  Tales  of  To-day. 20 

Hawley  Smart’s  Works. 

348  From  Post  to  Finish.  A Racing 

Romance 20 

367  Tie  and  Trick 20 

550  Struck  Down * 

847  Bad  to  Beat * 

925  The  Outsider 20 

1225  The  Last  Coup 20 

1317  Without  Love  or  Licence 20 

1342  Saddle  and  Sabre 20 

Frank  E.  Smedley’s  Works. 

333  Frank  Fairlegh ; or,  Scenes 
from  the  Life  of  a Private 

Pupil 20 

562  Lewis  Arundei;  or,  The  Rail- 
road of  Life 20 

By  J.  Gregory  Smith. 

1437  Selma 20 

T.  W.  Speight’s  Works. 

150  For  Himself  Alone * 

653  A Barren  Title * 

1375  The  Sandycroft  Mystery * 

By  Emily  Spender. 

735  Until  the  Day  Breaks 20 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson’s  Works. 

686  Strange  Case  of  Dr.  Jekylland 

Mr,  Hyde * 

704  Prince  Otto * 

832  Kidnapped 20 

855  The  Dynamiter 20 

856  New  Arabian  Nights 20 

888  Treasure  Island * 

889  An  Inland  Voyage * 

940  The  Merry  Men,  and  Other 

Tales  and  Fables 20 

1051  The  Misadventures  of  John 

Nicholson * 

1110  The  Silverado  Squatters 20 

1228  The  Master  of  Ballantrae 20 

By  St.  Pierre. 

1424  Paul  and  Virginia * 

By  Hesba  Stretton. 

1370  Bede’s  Charity * 

^ Esme  Stuart’s  Works. 

139f'Kestell  pf  Greystone * 20 

1551  The  Vicomte’s  Bride 20 

Julian  Sturgis’s  Works. 

405  My  Friends  and  I.  Edited  by 

Julian  Sturgis * 

694  John  Maidment 20 


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THE  SEASIDE  LIBEARY— Pocket  Edition. 


Eugene  Sue’s  Works. 

270  The  Wandering  Jew.  1st  half  30 
210  The  Wandering  Jew.  2d  half.  .30 

271  The  Mysteries  of  Paris.  1st  half  30 
271  The  Mysteries  of  Paris.  2d  half  30 

By  Bean  Swift. 

1365  Gulliver’s  Travels 20 

By  Tjaurence  Alina  Tadeina. 

757  Love’s  Martyr * 

“ Tasma’s ” W orks. 

1217  UnclePiper  of  Piper  s Hill.  An 


Australian  Novel 20 

1281  A Sydney  Sovereign 20 

1304  In  Her  Earliest  Youth 20 

By  George  Taylor. 

435  Klytia:  A Story  of  Heidelberg 
Castle . . . 20 

By  Ida  Ashworth  Taylor. 

426  Venus’s  Doves 20 

George  Temple’s  Works. 

599  Lancelot  Ward,  M.P * 

642  Britta * 


By  Alfred,  Lord  Tennyson,  P.  L., 

D.  C.  L. 

919  Locksley  Hall  Sixty  Years  Aft- 
er, etc. * 

William  M.  Thackeray’s  Works. 


27  Vanity  Fair.  1st  half 20 

27  Vanity  Fair.  2d  half 20 

165  The  History  of  Henry  Esmond  20 

316  Paris  Sketches 20 

464  The  Newcomes.  Parti 20 

464  The  Newcomes.  Part  H 20 

670  The  Rose  and  the  Ring.  Ulus- 

1322  Adventures  of  Piiiiip 30 

1324  The  Virginians.  1st  half 20 

1324  The  Virginians.  2d  half 20 

1330  'the  Four  Georges * 

1392  Yellowplush  Papers * 

By  Uliss  Thackeray. 

675  Mrs.  Dymond 20 

By  the  Author  of  “The  Spanish 
Brothers.” 

1243  Genevieve;  or,  The  Children  of 

Port  Ro3"al 20 

Works  by  the  Author  of  “The 
Two  Miss  Flemings.” 

637  What’s  His  Offence? 20 

780  Rare  Pale  Margaret 20 

784  The  Two  Miss  Flemings 20 

831  Pomegranate  Seed 20 

Annie  Thomas’s  W^orks. 

141  She  llioved  Hirn  ! * 

142  .Jenifer 20 

565  No  Medium * 

1219  That  Other  Woman 20 

1294  Love’s  a Tyrant 20 

1299  The  K lburns  20 

1483  The  Love  of  a Lady* 20 


Bertha  Thomas’s  Works, 

389  Ichabod.  A Portrait * 

60  Elizabeth’s  Fortune. ...... 20 

47  The  House  on  the  Scar 20 

B.v  Judge  D.  P.  Thompson. 

1414  The  Green  Mountain  Boys 20 

By  Theodore  Tilton. 

1450  Tempest  Tossed.  Vol.  1 20 

1450  Tempest  Tossed.  Vol.  II 20 

Count  I.yof  Tolstoi’s  Works. 


1066  My  Husband  and  I * 

1069  Polikouchka * 

1071  The  Death  of  Ivan  Iliitch * 

1073  Two  Generations * 

1090  The  Cossacks 20 

1108  Sebastopol 20 

By  A.  li.  G,  Bosboom-Toussaint. 

803  Major  Frank 20 

By  Adolphus  Trollope. 

115  Diamond  Cut  Diamond * 

Anthony  Trollope’s  Works, 

32  The  Land  Leaguers 20 

93  Anthony  Trollope’s  Autobiog- 
raphy   20 

147  Rachel  Ray 20 

200  An  Old  Man’s  Love * 


531  The  Prime  Minister.  1st  half.  20 
531  The  Prime  Minister.  2d  half-.  20 

621  The  Warden * 

622  Harry  Heathcote  of  Gangoil . . * 
667  The  Golden  I Jon  of  Granpere 

700  Ralph  the  Heir.  1st  half 

700  Ralph  the  Heir.  2d  half. ..... 


775  The"  Three  Clerks 20 

By  Tracy  Turnerelli. 

1371  A Russian  Princess — ' 20 

By  Sarah  Tytler, 

160  Her  Gentle  Deeds * 

By  Count  Paul  Vasili. 

505  The  Society  of  London * 


By  Sophie  E.  F,  Veitch. 

1280  The  Dean’s  Daughter...  20 

Margaret  Veley’s  W’^orks. 

298  Mitchelhurst  Place * 

586  “ For  Percival  ” 20 

Jules  Verne’s  Works. 

87  Dick  Sand ; or,  A Captain  at 

Fifteen 20 

100  20.000  Leagues  Under  the  Seas  20 
368  The  Southern  Star ; or,the  Dia- 
mond Land 20 

395  The  Archipelago  on  Fire * 

57'8  Mathias  Sandorf.  Illustrated. 

Parti * 

578  i\Iathias  Sandorf.  111.  Part  II.  * 
578  Blathias  Sandorf.  111.  Part  HI.  * 
659  The  Waif  of  the  “ Cynthia  ” . . 20 


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1545  Lover  or  Friend?  By  Rosa 

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1547  The  Keeper  of  the  Keys.  By 

F.  W.  Robinson 20 

1551  The  Vicomte’s  Bride.  ByEsmd 

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1555  The  Word  and  the  Will.  By 

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1559  Children  of  To-morrow.  By 

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1567  The  Bishops’  Bible.  By  David 
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1571  Blind  Fate.  By  Mrs.  Alexander  20 

1575  Rufflno.  By  “ Ouida  ” *. . 20 

1579  Princess  Sunshine.  By  Mrs.  J. 

H.  Riddell 20 

1583  A Marked  Man.  By  Ada  Cam- 
bridge   20 

1587  Dumps.  By  Louisa  Parr 20 

1591  The  Great  Mill  Street  Mystery.  ^ 

By  Adeline  Sergeant 20 

1595  The  Night  of  the  Third.  By  H. 

F.  Wood 20 

1599  Alas!  By  Rhoda  Broughton..  20 
1603  My  Shipmate  Louise.  By  W. 

Clark  Russell 20 

1607  Two  Masters.  ByB.  M.  Croker.  20 
1611  Between  Life  and  Death.  By 

Frank  Barrett 20 

1615  The  Havoc  of  a Smile.  By  L. 

B.  Walford 20 

1619  A Marriage  at  Sea.  By  W. 

Clark  Russell 20 

1623  City  and  Suburban.  By  Flor- 
ence Warden 20 

1627  A Romance  of  the  Wire.  By 

M.  Betham-Edwards 20 

1631  Heart  of  Gold.  By  L.  T.  Meade  20 
1635  The  World’s  Desire.  By  H. 
Rider  Haggard  and  Andrew 

Lang 20 

1639  Work  While  Ye  Have  the  Light. 

By  Count  Lyof  Tolstoi 20 

1613  Brave  Heart  and  True.  By 

Florence  Marryat 20 

1647  Curb  and  Snaffle.  By  Sir  Ran- 
dal H.  Roberts,  Bart 20 

1651  Thd  Black  Box  Murder.  By 
the  Man  who  Discovered  the 

Murderer 20 

1655  The  Demoniac.  By  Walter 

Besant 20 


NO.  PIMCK. 


1659  A Black  Business.  By  Hawley 

Smart * 

1663  Wormwood.  By  Marie  Corelli.  20 
1667  He  Went  for  a Soldier.  By 

John  Strange  Winter 20 

1671  Long  Odds.  By  Hawley  Smart  20 

1675  Marcia.  By  W.  E.  Norris 20 

1679  The  Sloaiie  Square  Scandal. 

By  Annie  Thomas 20 

1683  A Weird  Gift.  By  Georges 

Ohnet 20 

1685  The  Wonderful  Adventures  of 
Phra  the  Phoenician.  Retold 

by  Edwin  Lester  Arnold 20 

1687  In  Exchange  for  a Soul.  By 

Mary  Linskill 20 

1691  Elizabeth  Morley.  By  Kathar- 
ine S.  Macquoid 20 

1695  The  Case  of  Gen’l  Ople  and 
Lady  Camper.  By  George 

Meredith * 

1699  The  W ing  of  Azrael.  By  Mona 

Caird 20 

1703  Passion  the  Plaything.  By  R. 

Murray  Gilchrist * 

1707  Famous  or  Infamous?  By  Ber- 
tha Thomas 20 

1711  The  Pennycomequicks.  By  S. 

Baring-Gould 20 

1713  Jezebel’s  Friends.  By  Dora 

Russell  20 

1717  Comedy  of  a Country  House. 

By  Julian  Sturgis 20 

1719  The  Light  That  Failed.  By 

Rudyard  Kipling 20 

1721  The  Other  Man’s  Wife.  By 

John  Strange  Winter 20 

1725  Stand  Fast,  Craig-Royston ! By 

William  Black 20 

1729  Missing:  A Young  Girl.  By 

Florence  Warden ^ 

1731  The  Tree  of  Knowledge.  By  G. 

M.  Robins.  20 

1735  A Very  Young  Couple.  By  B. 

L.  Far  jeon.. 20 

1739  Sylvia  Arden.  By  Oswald 

Crawfurd  20 

1743  The  Haute  Noblesse.  By 

George  Manville  Fenn 20 

1747  Le  Beau  Sabreur.  By  Anna 

Thomas 20 

1751  A Bitter  Birthright.  By  Dora 

Russell 20 

1755  A Bride  from  the  Bush.  By  A 

New  Writer 20 


The  foregoing  works,  contained  in  The  Seaside  Library,  Pocket  Edition, 
are  for  sale  by  all  newsdealers,  or  will  be  sent  to  any  address,  postage  free,  on 
receipt  of  price.  Parties  ordering  by  mail  will  please  order  by  numbers.  Ad- 
dress 

GEORGE  MUNRO,  iUiiuro’s  Piiblisliing  House, 

P.  O.  Box  375:|.  17  TO  27  Vandewater  Street,  New  York, 


fXCEand  HANDS 


'"Parts  Exposzttoti’, 

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Highest  possible  disifnctionT 


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Contains  no  Iodine^  Potash,  Blue  Vitriol^  Meiv 
cnry  or  other  mineral# 

Is  guaranteed  purely  vegetable. 

' Cures  all  blood  affections  and  skin  diseases  pro* 
duced  by  impure  blood. 


Haklem,  January  23, 1390. 

This  certifies  that  my  child,  19  months  old,  was  afflicted  with  a 
very  bad  skin  disease  of  the  face,  eyes  and  inside  of  the  nose.  Tho 
face  was  covered  with  matterating  sores,  and  his  eyes  were  swollen 
shut  on  account  of  the  sores  on  the  eyelids,  and  his  nose  was  dis- 
charging matter  and  was  full  inside  of  the  sores.  I gave  him  the 
Cactus  Blood  Cure  for  four  weeks,  and  to-day  my  ba%  is  entirely 
well. 

IMus.  J.  KENNY,  145  East  126th  St.,  N.  Y. 


The  Cactus  Blood  Cure  has,  positively  cured 
\ numerous  cases  of  Scrofula  and  Salt  Bheum  in  one 
month’s  time  where  all  other  blood  purifiers  have 
failed# 


Pronounced  by  leading  physicians  of  New  York  the  greatest 
blood  cure  known.  Send  for  descriptive  book  containing  endorse- 
ments of  Reverend  Catholic  Fathers,  prominent  physicians,  and  many 
cured  in  New  York.  Sold  by  Druggists.  If  your  Druggist  does  not 
keep  it  we  will  send  on  receipt  of  price : Large  size  Bottle,  $2.00; 
Small,  $1.00. 

AliVA’S  BRAZILIAN*  SPECIFIC  CO., 

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“Worth  a Guinea  a Box,” 


But  sold  by  ali  Druggists  at  25  cents. 

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Bilious  and  Nervous  Disorders 

SUCH  AS  ' . 

Sick  Headache, 
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Disordered  Liver,  Etc. 

Prepared  ONLY  BY  TH OS.  BEECHAiVI,  St.  Helens,  Lancashire.  Eng. 
B.  F.  ALLEN  CO.,  Sole  Agents  for  United  States,  365  & 367 
C9iNAL  St.  New  York,  who  (if  your  dru^^-^ist  does  not  keep  them)  will  mail 
Beeoham’s  Pills  on  receipt  of  price,  25c.— but  inquire  first.  Correspond- 
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advertisement  is  seen. 


NOTE. 


As  yet  none  of  these  stories  and  legends  have  ever  been 
published  in  French,  the  language  in  which  their  author 
wrote  them  ; nor,  in  fact,  have  they  ever  been  printed  at 
all,  except  in  the  four  leading  newspaper  syndicates  of 
this  country  and  Great  Britain.  The  material  in  this  book 
was  selected  from  the  one  hundred  and  twenty-seven  manu- 
scripts which  were  placed  in  my  hands  for  translation  and 
publication  as  a means  of  reawakening  the  deep  interest 
which  formerly  was  felt  in  Mme.  Sand  as  a romancer  by 
English-speaking  readers  ; and  it  forms  but  a small  part 
of  the  enormous  quantity  of  finished  literary  matter  which 
she  left  unpublished  at  the  time  of  her  death.  The  bulk 
of  her  posthumous  literary  remains  consists  of  short  stories, 
legends,  and  psychological  studies  which,  more  than  any- 
thing else,  she  always  delighted  in  writing,  though  she 
rarely  published  anything  less  considerable  than  novels. 
The  reason  of  her  reluctance  about  publishing  these  briefer 
specimens  of  her  literary  skill  during  her  life  is  incompre- 
hensible to  many  competent  critics,  since,  in  their  estima- 
tion, it  comprises  some  of  her  very  best  work.  The  matter 
which  this  book  contains  has  been  much  sought  after,  and 
has  won  only  golden  opinions  as  it  has  appeared  in  the 
periodical  press.  Syndicate  managers  assure  me  also  that 


6 


NOTE. 


no  other  contemporaneous  matter  has  been  in  such  de- 
mand among  the  publishers  whom  they  supply.  All  this, 
of  course,  is  very  gratifying,  and  leads  the  translator  to 
hope  that  this  posthumous  fiction  of  Mme.  Sand’s  may 
meet  with  equal  favor  and  appreciation  in  its  present 
form. 

Lew  Vanderpoole. 

New  York,  April  23,  1887. 


I 


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makes  it  an  almost  necessary  article  to  any  well  supplied  store.  £veiy^«** 
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i 


To  Americans  it  is  a strange  sight  to  see  a large  field  planted  ^\ 
rose  bushes,  in  long,  straight  rows,  very  much  as  corn  is  cultivate* 
this  country. 

Yet  there  are  hundreds  of  fields  in  Southern  France,  like  the 
shown  in  the  above  picture,  which  bear  no  less  than  180,000  lbs,  o| 
tons  of  roses  each  year,  for  Colgate  & Co. 

As  the  perfume  of  a flower  is  more  fragrant  in  the  early  mornij 
great  care  is  exercised  to  secure  the  roses  from  only  those  farmers 
gather  their  flowers  early  in  the  morning,  before  the  dew  has  dried  fr. 
the  leaves,  and  the  hot  sun  drawn  off  the  perfume.  ^ ® 

It  is  this  attention  to  the  minutest  detail  in  obtaining  only 
choicest  kind  of  perfume,  and  the  best  of  materials,  which  has  secured?^ 
Colfyaf.A  A rio.  f.ViA  biorVipaf,  fl.warrifl  at  Wnrlrl  FT-nnsitions.  and  flrives  I?® 


ono 

c90 


(for 


Colgate  & Co.  the  highest  awards  at  World  Expositions,  and  gives 
rivalled  superiority  to  their  Soaps  and  Perfumes,  the  favorite  of  wl 
is 


L CASHMERE  BOUQUET. 


r 


